Authors: Margo Candela
Underneath It All (22 page)
62
Megan
T
he Mayors are arriving in a couple of hours and I need to make sure the Mansion is ready for them. Fresh flowers, some food in the fridge and all the silverware accounted for.
he Mayors are arriving in a couple of hours and I need to make sure the Mansion is ready for them. Fresh flowers, some food in the fridge and all the silverware accounted for.
Megan, from French Tulip, the Mayors’s favorite florist, has promised the arrangements will be delivered by 4:30. I speed there, relieved to see the delivery van parked outside.
I love flowers. Just love them. They are so beautiful, varied and temporary. You have to enjoy them while you have them because, in a week or so, they’ll be tossed out. I once toyed with the idea of getting a job as a florist, but when I found out I’d have to hit the flower mart at 4:00
AM
, I quickly reconsidered my career choices.
AM
, I quickly reconsidered my career choices.
“Hey, Jacquelyn!” Megan is plucking off stray leaves and dropping them and imperfect petals into a bucket at her feet. It’s amazing how much of the actual flower never makes it into the final arrangement. “You like?”
“These look great, Megan.”
I hang out, watching her, pretending to smell the flowers. It helps me postpone having to go pretend to supervise the cleaning. I don’t like standing over Anita and Lei, making sure they aren’t leaving streaks on windows or creases in the linen. That’s Mrs. Mayor’s forte. It just makes me uncomfortable.
The Mansion has been empty, except for Danny, so there isn’t any heavy-duty cleaning to do. Anita and Lei get an unpaid vacation each time the Mayors go out of town. Danny gets to stay to keep an eye on things even though they have a security service. For some reason, the Mayors trust Danny more than they do their cleaning staff who washes their underwear and knows what kind of dental floss they use.
“Almost done,” answers Megan. “Don’t worry, we’ll have plenty of time to put them in the perfect place.”
“Thanks, Megan.” Mrs. Mayor has designated spots for arrangements and they’re all color-coded. Megan knows to stick with the color pallet, height requirements and all the other persnickety details Mrs. Mayor insists upon.
“So, did you like the flowers?” Megan asks.
“Flowers?”
“From ...” Megan lowers her voice and looks around. In her business, she has to be discreet. “Your friend George? The Rustique roses? He mentioned you specifically, that you got all your flowers from us.”
“Oh. Oh! Those. Yeah. Thanks, they were beautiful. Thanks.” George couldn’t have sent me flowers; he knew I was out of town.
“Not a problem.” She goes back to fluffing flowers. “Special order, too. Lucky girl.”
George told me his wife is allergic to roses and he knows I love Rustiques. I told him how elegant and unique they were, with their slight pink blush, compared with boring red roses. Red roses are so high school and, since I was miserable in high school, the last thing I’d ever want is a couple dozen long-stemmed reminders from a boyfriend. But, lucky for me, my boyfriend would never send me stupid red roses. In fact, he hasn’t sent
me
any roses at all. Ever, in the whole six weeks we’ve known each other.
me
any roses at all. Ever, in the whole six weeks we’ve known each other.
“Yes, I am. A very lucky girl.”
63
Bina
I
shut the door firmly behind me and pick up my phone and dial Bina’s cell. She picks up on the first ring.
shut the door firmly behind me and pick up my phone and dial Bina’s cell. She picks up on the first ring.
“Sanjay?” Bina asks. Crap. Sounds as if they’ve had a fight.
“Sorry, it’s just me. Your best friend.” I put my feet up on my desk. We are due for a long talk. I’d rather do this in person over cheesy nachos and boozy margaritas, but I’m not sure she has the time or emotional capacity to deal with me when her fiancé is obviously foremost in her thoughts. How selfish. “Is everything OK?”
“Yes. No. Sanjay is just being a dick. We had a fight,” Bina admits.
Lately she’s been more comfortable talking about Sanjay’s faults and, lucky for her, I’m an eager audience.
“Wedding related?” I really don’t have to ask; the wedding is all they talk about with each other. It’s like they’re two generals trying to strategize a very small military campaign.
Surprisingly, Sanjay has strong opinions on both their traditional Indian wedding in India and their traditional American wedding in Napa. Bina is as surprised as I am that Sanjay even cares. He’s been nitpicking about everything from the choice of menu to the color scheme to the music selection. He’s driving Bina batty. I feel for her, but what would you expect from a tax attorney? His life is all about tiny little details most people couldn’t be bothered with until the IRS comes knocking at their door.
“He’s complaining about the photographer! With such short notice, we’re lucky to have gotten any photographer.” Bina snorts.
“How about we get together for some nice midweek girl talk? Just you, me and some fattening food.”
“Anything to get a break from Sanjay. Tomorrow night? Usual place?”
“See you there. Around 7:30. Bye!” I hang up and sit back, enjoying my last moments of peace and quiet.
I have to stick around until the Mayors come in, have dinner, wait for Anita and Lei to do the unpacking, check in one last time with Mrs. Mayor, and then finally I’ll be free to go back to my flat ... and Vivian.
64
Vivian
S
he keeps up a brave face, but I can tell Vivian is miserable. She tiptoes around the flat as if she’s trying to be invisible, but it only makes me more aware that she’s there.
he keeps up a brave face, but I can tell Vivian is miserable. She tiptoes around the flat as if she’s trying to be invisible, but it only makes me more aware that she’s there.
It’s been only a week, but each time we talk, she assures me that she’ll find a new place and be out of my hair as soon as possible. Then I assure her not to stress, that I love having the company and for her to take her time. Then there’s a brief silence and we move on to talk about work. Never about Curtis and never Nate.
I’ve even kept the fridge stocked with a couple of bottles of white wine, but Vivian’s preferred mode of comfort turns out to be Chips Ahoy! dipped in Cool Whip. She carefully stacks a pile of about five cookies on a plate and then fills a small bowl with Cool Whip and dips and munches while she reads the morning paper and goes through her day planner. At night, it’s almost the same routine: five cookies, small bowl of Cool Whip, magazine
,
day planner.
,
day planner.
When I go to bed, she’ll still be at the kitchen table, nibbling. Most mornings I find an empty cookie bag in the trash and the plastic container rinsed out and in the recycling bin. She’s going through a bag of cookies and a tub of Cool Whip a day. Every day. But otherwise she seems perfectly normal, if a little sad.
We go out together, shop together, watch TV at night, eat dinner here and there. It’s as if we’re regular roommates, and I kind of like it. Even Bina is happy with it. She’s been coming over and hiding out from Sanjay with us to eat take-out.
To deal with her Sanjay stress, Bina has stepped up her hair-removal regimen. It’s become her obsession. The more difficult Sanjay becomes, the more hair Bina decides she has to remove. She’s even talking about cutting her hair short.
My postrelationship neurosis was a little harder to keep private. I developed the incessant and irrepressible desire to yawn. No matter how rested I felt, I would break out into a yawn, a huge lioness-on-the-Serengeti yawn. I could be in the middle of an animated conversation with a guy I found attractive, and then all of a sudden—
bam!
—and the poor guy would sit there blinking while I resumed talking as if nothing had happened.
bam!
—and the poor guy would sit there blinking while I resumed talking as if nothing had happened.
After a while, I realized that this was my brain’s way of telling me not to date. So I stopped dating and almost instantly resumed a normal yawning pattern. This is why I think it’s working out with George. Since there really is no chance for a long-term, committed relationship, I don’t have the subconscious desire to signal my romantic apathy to him by yawning and making him think I find him incredibly boring.
I dial Vivian on my cell.
“Hey, Jacqs, what’s their ETA?” At work, Vivian is all business. Though she told me people have been whispering behind her back, they’ve kept it pretty quiet, especially since the Mayor is backing her a hundred percent.
“About five, ten minutes. How’s everything down there?”
“Chaotic, but nothing out of the ordinary. Mr. Mayor is going to have a very busy day tomorrow. You should let Mrs. Mayor know he won’t be making it home for dinner. He’s got a dinner thing.”
Mr. Mayor has had a lot of these vague “dinner things” Mrs. Mayor hasn’t been invited to. That’s probably one of the reasons she might think that he’s boinking someone else. It’s what I would assume. But I know Mrs. Mayor has plans of her own for tomorrow, since she had me arrange an afternoon in-home colonic and delivery of organic wheatgrass and carrots, which Lei will prepare throughout the day to help the process along.
“She’ll be fine.”
“Don’t make me laugh. I’m supposed to be the impassive public-relations person.” Vivian sounds as if she hasn’t laughed in a very long time.
“Speaking of which, Vivian, I was wondering if you want to come out tomorrow night with me and Bina?”
“Oh, what better way to spend an evening than with the doctor with incredible skin and hair?” Like most redheads, Vivian envies anyone with melanin that doesn’t come from a bottle. “I don’t know ... Mr. Mayor might need something.”
Vivian has been keeping close to work or my place in hopes that Curtis will come to his senses and beg for her forgiveness.
“What? He’s going to need you to put out a press release that he farted at dinner? Come on, it’ll be fun. I won’t stop bugging you until you say yes.”
“OK. Fine. Mr. Mayor can handle his own fart issues for one night.”
“Amen, sister.” I glance in my planner and see it’s pretty light for the rest of the week. This is good and not good. Usually Mrs. Mayor has activities planned at least two weeks in advance. When she has a lot of time on her hands, she tends to get listless and mopes around their 5000-square-foot Mansion, which annoys Mr. Mayor, mostly because she always manages to do it in his vicinity.
Hopefully something will pop up to keep me busy and out of her way for a few days.
“You there, Jacqs?” Vivian sounds sad and vulnerable.
“Yeah.” I wait. It’s time for her to spill her guts.
“I ... nothing. OK. See you later.”
She clicks off, not giving me a chance to say good-bye.
65
The Mayors
T
he flower arrangements are in place, the Mansion is dust-free, the yard picture-perfect and dinner—sushi, per Mrs. Mayor’s request from the car on their way from the airport—will be delivered shortly.
he flower arrangements are in place, the Mansion is dust-free, the yard picture-perfect and dinner—sushi, per Mrs. Mayor’s request from the car on their way from the airport—will be delivered shortly.
Now we wait.
I linger in the front hall, trying not to peek out the window. Lei and Anita have disappeared into the small room off the Kitchen that serves as their “office” where they’re eating (in silence) dinner. Lei some noodle thing and Anita some rice thing that they heated up in the microwave. Their smallish TV is tuned to QVC, the only channel they can both agree upon.
I am debating giving my nails a quick file and buff when I see the car pull into the garage at a good clip. Danny must be in a hurry to get back to his porn.
I check my watch. The sushi won’t be here for another 10 minutes or so. Hopefully Mrs. Mayor won’t be expecting to sit down right away for her dinner.
The door opens and Mr. Mayor steps aside so Mrs. Mayor can step in before him. I try and gauge Mrs. Mayor’s mood. Not easy, since she’s wearing sunglasses.
“Welcome back. I hope you both had a nice trip,” I say cheerily.
“Thanks, Jacquelyn. I’ll be in my office.” He kisses Mrs. Mayor on the cheek and grabs the cold beer from Anita who has materialized out of thin air.
“I’m famished, Jacquelyn. Is the sushi here?” Mrs. Mayor asks. It’s obvious it isn’t here, but I guess she can’t keep herself from asking.
“Any second now.”
“Will you have Lei and Anita do the unpacking? There are some things that need to be sent to the dry cleaner.” Mrs. Mayor wanders into the living room, stopping to admire the flowers, still wearing her glasses, but that’s not the reason she doesn’t bother to address Lei and Anita directly, even though they are both helping Danny with the luggage and numerous shopping bags.
Lei gives me a curt nod and they head up the back stairs into the dressing area where they’ll be busy for the next hour or so. I wonder if Mrs. Mayor will be nice enough to offer Danny’s services to get them home. If not, I will.
“Jacquelyn, come in here and tell me how your family is? It feels like ages since I last saw you.”
Is Mrs. Mayor drunk or on drugs? She’s a bitch, yes, although she can be pleasant, but I’ve never known her to be this human.
“Sure. Let me get us something to drink.” Hey, if she’s going to be all chummy with me, I may as well get comfortable.
I grab a plastic bottle of water and two glasses and put them on a rattan tray.
So
not the Baxter way, but I doubt Mrs. Mayor will notice.
So
not the Baxter way, but I doubt Mrs. Mayor will notice.
Mrs. Mayor is perched on one of the couches flipping through her mail.
“Oh, wonderful. Is the sushi here yet?”
“Any second now. Lei has set up the dining room. Would you care to eat somewhere else?”
“Hmmm. No. That will be fine.” She lethargically flips through a magazine. “It’s so good to be back.”
“Did you have a nice time?” I try not to stare as I pour the water, but she’s still wearing her sunglasses and it really is starting to bug me.
“Oh, it was wonderful.” She makes a move to lift them up, but then the doorbell rings and she clamps them back firmly on the bridge of her nose.
“That’ll be the sushi. Excuse me.”
I rush to the door, pay the guy and as soon as I turn around Anita is there to take the food out of my hands. Without a word she heads into the dining room.
“Thanks, Anita.”
“Jacquelyn, I’m going upstairs to change,” Mrs. Mayor calls over her shoulder.
“Sure. I’ll let you both know when everything is ready.” I wander into the dining room and stand off to the side to make sure Anita doesn’t set out my order of sushi with the Mayors’s.
“Mrs. Mayor, she has a black eye,” Anita states impassively. She and Lei call Mrs. Mayor “Mrs. Mayor” because that’s what they think she should be called.
“Pardon me?” First of all, I’m floored that Anita actually spoke to me and, second, what the hell did she just say? “What did you just say?”
“A black eye. Danny told me.” She doesn’t look up from where she’s refolding the napkins.
“One or two? Because if it’s two maybe she had, I don’t know, her eyes done. By a doctor.” This is not out of the question, but unlikely since Mrs. Mayor would have been more than comfortable having me arrange it for her.
“No. One eye. The left.” Anita is a fount of information.
“Does he know how this happened?”
“No. Dinner is ready.” Anita leaves me gripping the back of a silk-upholstered dining room chair and with my chin on the floor.
Could Mr. Mayor have hit her? Could he have hit her so hard that she has brain damage and that’s why she’s being so weird? Not to be sexist, but what the hell could Mrs. Mayor have done that was so bad that he’d pop her in the eye?
I head over to Mr. Mayor’s office door and knock. I can hear his muffled voice on the phone, most likely with Vivian. I knock again. After a few seconds the door opens.
“Hi. Jacquelyn. Come in.” He looks tired but he manages to give me a friendly smile. Come in! Have they both been inhabited by aliens?
“Actually, Mr. Mayor, I just came to tell you that dinner is ready.”
“Oh. OK. Thanks.” He sighs.
“I’ll be right back. I just have to check on something downstairs, I mean, upstairs.” I scamper toward the staircase and hope he doesn’t say anything.
Upstairs the door is ajar to their bedroom. Anita and Lei are busy in the dressing room sorting and storing. Mrs. Mayor is nowhere in sight.
“Where is she?” I whisper to Anita and Lei. Anita shrugs and Lei gestures toward the closed bathroom door. “Is she OK?”
“She’s in there with her cosmetic case,” Lei says.
This whole thing doesn’t seem to bother Anita. Maybe she’s used to domestic abuse. I wouldn’t be surprised. Though I’ve never met her family, or even heard her talk about a husband or anything, she seems like the downtrodden type. Kind of like my mom, though I know my dad would never hit my mom. If he did we’d kick his ass, at least I would.
I go to the door and knock softly. Out of the corner of my eye I catch sight of a pair of chocolate brown suede boots. They look like they feel like butter. They must be new, because they weren’t here when we left for Carmel. I reach over—
“Yes?” Mrs. Mayor asks in a startled voice. I can hear the water running.
“Dinner is ready. The Mayor is down in the dining room,” I say, not taking my eyes off the boots.
“Oh, thanks, Jacquelyn. I’ll be down in a moment.”
I turn around to look for some support, but Lei ducks her head and pretends to be absorbed in sorting the Mayor’s dirty socks. Anita narrows her eyes and shrugs again. I guess they figure that since I get paid more I should deal with this on my own.
I hear Mrs. Mayor’s heels clack on the marble floor and before the knob turns I bolt out of there and down the stairs and straight into my office.
Anita has set up my sushi on my desk, but I’m too weirded out to even think of eating.
I sit at my desk and rub my chopsticks against each other, even though they’re silver-monogrammed chopsticks. Mrs. Mayor got a set of about 20 for a wedding gift and insists Anita and Lei set them on the table any time any vaguely chopsticky food is served. Along with the porcelain chopstick rests, of course.
I look at my place setting and it’s all too perfect. A plain white china plate of the highest quality rests on a handwoven rattan place mat with a soy-sauce dish precisely at the one o’clock position, a linen napkin in its silver-monogrammed ring (Mrs. Mayor is big on monogramming—anything with a surface has their initials on it) on the left and my sushi set on a coordinating sushi plate anchoring it all at twelve o’clock.
This is Mrs. Mayor’s life, the image of perfection. It’s like living at a hotel 24 hours a day where everything runs smoothly and you never think about how your bed gets turned down, or how fresh fluffy towels appear in your bathroom each day. It’s all very numbing and not at all unpleasant.
Why did she have to go and bring her black eye into the picture?
I expertly grab a roll—I used to use my fingers but when I got a load of the silver chopsticks I learned quickly—and pop it into my mouth and chew. And chew and chew.
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