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Authors: Margo Candela

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BOOK: Underneath It All
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71
Mr. Mayor

J
acquelyn, can I speak with you a moment?”
Instead of heading toward his office, Mr. Mayor makes a beeline for mine. I follow him, giving Lei and Anita a look of utmost confusion so they don’t get any funny ideas.
“Did you see it?” His suit jacket is draped over his arm and he hasn’t put on his tie, as if he had to leave the master suite in a hurry. He closes the door and leans against it.
“I saw it.” What else can I say? I go over and stand behind my desk, to put some distance between us.
Emilio Cortez’s column this morning is heavy on innuendo of mayoral marital strife, speculation on infidelities and the bad blood between Mrs. Mayor and Gail. Mrs. Mayor comes out looking like a victim of a joyless marriage who isn’t accepted into her husband’s blue-blood family. Vivian, though not named directly, has been fingered as the other woman. It’s all very soap worthy.
“I can’t stress how much Katherine and I value our privacy,” he begins.
“Mr. Mayor, please.” My hand flies up to stop him from continuing on and pissing me off. “I would never, ever speak to the press about your private life. Never, and I know Anita and Lei wouldn’t either.”
“I’m taking you at your word, Jacqs. What about Natasha?”
I had hoped he’d accuse Danny.
“Never.” In her phone calls to me from New York she hasn’t mentioned Mrs. Mayor once or coming back to work here. It’s all “Jesus this, Jesus that.” Distance, it seems, has only made Natasha’s heart fonder for the man.
“Press like this makes it harder for me to do my job.”
“I bet.” I snort and don’t bother to hide my annoyance. “I’m sure it’s not a picnic for Vivian either.”
He runs his hands through his hair. “Fuck. I don’t need this right now.”
I walk over to the door and reach around him for the knob. His eyes catch mine and he leans into me. I jerk the door open and step out.
“None of us do, Kit.”
72
Mrs. Mayor

I
don’t know why she doesn’t like them. She didn’t say, specifically, that she doesn’t like them. All I know is she wants me to return them both and wants her account credited.”
For the last twenty-five minutes I have spoken with four people regarding a pair of truly hideous hand-painted clown figures Mrs. Mayor must have purchased while in a delusional state.
“Is there something else the mayor and his wife are interested in?” The floor supervisor for Gumps, asks again.
“No, she just said to return them.” I’ve told this to three other people. Each one has become more concerned and panicky.
“Was there anything wrong with them?” she persists.
“No.” Other than that they’re incredibly ugly? I don’t care if they’re $200 a pop. They’re clowns, for Christ’s sake. Pastel clowns hand-painted in the hills of Umbria. Who the hell has clowns in their house? Not even my mother had clowns. She was more into the musical instrument–playing frogs.
“Please make sure the mayor and his wife know they’re always welcome at Gumps. And we hope in the future that they’ll find everything to their liking.”
“I will.” She well knows that Mr. Mayor has never set foot in Gumps. It’s Mrs. Mayor who handles the gift buying for Mr. Mayor and herself as well.
“I’m sure she’ll be in sometime to do some shopping. It’s just the clowns didn’t quite go with her, uh ... décor.” I hand over Mrs. Mayor’s platinum card and smile.
I’m done for the day. That’s it. I’ve been going from store to store returning this and picking up that and none of it makes any sense. Return hideous clowns to Gumps, pick up scary Lalique birds at Saks. Return Jimmy Choo stilettos to Neimans, pick up two pairs of futuristic sneakers at Sketchers. Approve and, most importantly, messenger over to City Hall special-order manly purple tie from Hermès for Mr. Mayor for his dinner Friday night with the governor, which she won’t be able to make because she’ll be in LA.
She’s decided to visit some friends to let the heat die down after Cortez’s little story. She wasn’t nearly as upset as I thought she would be. But she and Mr. Mayor had a long discussion after he was done with me and she called me right after, with a hiccup in her voice, to tell me she’d be going out of town and to not worry.
Since the whole “friend” remark and her coming back with a black eye, we really haven’t spent any one-on-one time together. I am not sure if I’m supposed to pull up a chair and discuss menstrual cramps with her or ask her if she needs me to do anything for her, like have Anita and Lei alphabetize her shoe collection.
Lucky for me, Mrs. Mayor knows exactly where I stand at all times. A few minutes later she came downstairs with a bag full of expensive crap that needed to be exchanged or returned and a list of things she needed purchased while she’s away.
Without so much as a please or thank you I was sent on my way with a reminder to keep my cell phone on.
After I sign Mrs. Mayor’s name to the receipt I flee Gumps and retrieve my car from the overpriced parking lot, making sure to save my receipt. Mrs. Mayor didn’t say anything about coming back to the Mansion after I was done so I have the unsettling feeling that I’m free for the rest of the day.
I could go to the movies.
It’s something I like doing alone and got in the habit of when Bina was doing her grueling residency. Most of the appeal lies in that I smuggle in my own food and sit exactly in the middle of the theater and for the next couple hours I either enjoy myself or, if the movie fails to keep my attention, I balance my checkbook, pay bills, reconcile my expense reports or even read with a tiny light I keep in my bag for that purpose.
As far as I’m concerned, everything looks better in the dark. Even American Express bills.
73
George
I
turn down on to Post Street and head toward another overpriced parking garage on 5th and Mission when my cell phone chirps. I pick it up and shove it between my ear and shoulder.
“Hello? This is Jacquelyn.” I know it’s not Mrs. Mayor because I have a special ring for her calls.
“You’re not avoiding me, are you?” George’s honey-smooth voice melts into my ear.
“Of course not. How are you?” I straighten up and am so surprised that I miss my chance to turn, causing a line of cars to honk their horns at me.
“How am I? So you are avoiding me. I knew it.”
George sounds lazily distracted. I guess it’s one of the perks of being an executive, along with calling your girlfriend in the middle of the afternoon.
“I was just about to call you,” I lie easily. With George I have found that he’s not so much interested in the truth as he is in the truth that suits him. This works for me, most of the time.
“I’m sure you were. How about dinner with my best girl?” George asks. “Somewhere new.”
“Well ...” I was really looking forward to the movies and I’m not dressed for dinner, at least dinner anywhere George would take me. “I’m not sure.”
“Jacquelyn, I’m hurt. We haven’t talked in days and days. Don’t you miss me? Even a little bit?”
“No.” Which isn’t exactly a lie but not true either. I don’t mean to hurt his feelings, but I don’t like where I’m going with this relationship—the uncertainty, the suspicions. If that’s what I wanted out of a relationship I’d get myself a real boyfriend. “Anyway, Georgie, I’m not at all dressed for dinner unless you want to go out for a slice of pizza.”
“Pizza? I haven’t been able to digest pizza since my late twenties. Meet at Jardinière at 6:30.”
With that, George hangs up and literally leaves me at an intersection of decision.
 
The white calfskin Ferragamo wallet and purse distract me for a moment and I forget I’m sitting in the same restaurant where I had my last real meal with my then husband, who is getting married in two days.
After deciding what kind of girl I am, I rushed around the San Francisco Shopping Center assembling a complete outfit—from underwear and shoes, to a tortoiseshell hairclip to secure my chignon. I did my makeup at Sephora (thinking of Natasha the whole time) and made it to Jardinière fashionably late. And not on purpose, a first for me.
“George, this is too much!” Not even Mrs. Mayor has this bag. I’m sure she could buy it anytime, but mine is a gift, which makes it ten times better.
“Just a little something to make up for the short notice.”
The wineglass in front of him has not been touched. I am guessing it’s a pretty expensive bottle because the waiter’s eyes bugged out when he ordered it.
“I’d hate to see what you’d give me if you stood me up.”
George gives me a satisfied smile and leans back. Our table, by Jardinière standards is ideal. We are seated at the central table on the balcony overlooking the bar downstairs. This is a table that says “I’m not hiding from anyone. I want to be seen.” I guess it’s George’s way of saying we’ve come out of the broom closet.
“I’m glad you like it. You don’t own one, do you?”
“Not this one. I really love it!” I take a sip of my water and smile over my glass at him. I need to stop gushing now, George is enjoying it a tad too much.
“My wife is out of town,” George says, straining a bit to sound casual. I notice he called her his wife and not his soon-to-be ex-wife. I guess that’s too much of a mouthful.
“Oh.”
Payback time. George is nice. I like George. I don’t have much of a problem with George not being divorced yet. I obviously don’t have a problem with him lavishing gifts on me. But what I don’t want to know is that his wife is out of town. That could be a problem.
“Her sister is getting divorced. She was staying at our place for a bit. I sent her some roses. It didn’t seem to cheer her up.” George allows the waiter to refill his wineglass.
“Roses. How could a woman not like roses?” So that would tidily explain the delivery from French Tulip. I like the bag but I’m not stupid.
“I know one woman who loves roses,” George says.
I smile. This is making me uncomfortable. This is outright flirting, which will lead to touching, which may lead to sex. This is wrong. I shouldn’t feel obligated to have sex with George just because he’s dropped some, OK, a lot of cash on me. Maybe I shouldn’t have let him and kept things intellectual.
“George—”
“I was wondering what you’re doing this weekend?” George and I have never met on a weekend. On those two days he has to play the dutiful husband for forty-eight hours straight, an exercise that leaves him too exhausted to meet me on Mondays.
“Not much.” I did have tentative plans to throw a get-together to celebrate Nate’s marriage. I was going to surround myself with people who think I’m the bee’s knees and revel in all my glory. “Why? Are you going to whisk me off for a romantic weekend?”
“Maybe. Would you like that?” George asks a bit nervously.
I’ve never seen George nervous. He didn’t even blink when he told me on our second lunch date that he was unhappily married.
“George, I do believe you are propositioning me,” I tease.
“Such a technical word, Jacquelyn,” he says, recovering his stride, but he doesn’t say anything else.
If we were both honest with each other, that’s what he’s been doing all this time while I’ve been considering it. We both knew this day would come and now here it is and he’s made his decision. Now it’s up to me to stop pretending I haven’t made mine. It’s as good as done.
I’m finally going to see what the inside of George’s house looks like.
“If you’d excuse me. I have to go to the ladies’ room.” I get up and smile. Just because we both know I’m going to give it up doesn’t mean I have to be so hasty about it.
“Jacquelyn, you’re not going to leave me here in suspense. Are you?” George asks, looking unsure.
“No. No, of course not. I just need to ...” I glance over his shoulder at the bar below and freeze.
“Jacquelyn, are you all right?” George stands up and helps me sit down.
“George ...” I cover my eyes with my hands. “Look over at the bar, near the door and tell me what you see ...”
“Have a sip of water ... Just people. Should I be looking for anyone in particular?” George hovers over me protectively.
“The couple by the hostess ...” I lower my hands and look closely.
“The two men that are kissing? Jacquelyn, this is San Francisco, you should be used to that by now,” George says in an amused voice and takes his seat.
“I’m used to it, of course, but I never expected to see my best friend’s fiancé doing it.”
74
Dr. N

A
nd how did this make you feel?” Dr.N asks.
She wants to play TV shrink again. I guess she had hoped I’d called because I’d pulled a threesome and was feeling all sorts of gooey Catholic guilt.
“I don’t know. Confused. Happy. Shocked. Angry. All those things,” I say to Dr. N as if she should know. I just finished recounting to her what I saw last night, leaving out crucial details of who I was with and what I was doing there.
After blood started flowing to my brain again, George arranged to have me smuggled through the kitchen of Jardinière while he casually went over to the hostess and asked to see the reservation book. Sure enough: Sanjay Gupta, party of two was listed for a 7:00 reservation.
George dropped me off at my car and asked me what I was going to do, and when I shrugged helplessly, he offered to come over to my place to keep me company. I declined, of course. Dealing with one sordid romance a night is my limit. As soon as I started my car, I speed dialed Dr. N and asked her for an emergency appointment. Lucky for me Dr. N is an early riser so here I am sitting in her office less than fourteen hours after I got the shock of my life.
“What I want to know is what I should do,” I say. Dr. N is a mental doctor, she should know how to handle this kind of situation. I don’t have time to write into Dear Abby so she’s my next best thing—impartial, intelligent and in the position to have to give an answer.
“What do you think you should do?” she asks.
For this I woke up at 6
AM
, lied to Mrs. Mayor about coming down with a raging UTI, avoided poor Vivian and will be shelling out a whole $150 for?
“I was kind of hoping you could tell me.” I don’t have time for this. I need to know what I should do now. I can’t ask anyone else; she must know this or else I wouldn’t have come to her. Why is she giving me a hard time?
“I can’t tell you, Jacquelyn. We can discuss the situation, go over your options and then you have to come to a decision yourself.”
“Arggg!”
I pound my fists on the armchair. This gets Dr. N’s attention. She looks at me like Miss Chavez (aspiring cruel nun and itinerate catechism teacher) used to look at me whenever I raised my hand in class to be excused for my umpteenth trip to the bathroom. “Sorry.”
“You seem to be very angry lately, Jacquelyn,” Dr. N observes.
“I am not!” I am now, though.
“And defensive.” Dr. N flips through her notebook. I know this is where she has catalogued all my confessions from our very first meeting. I once got a quick peek at it when she had had some bad calamari and had to rush to the bathroom during a session. “How long has it been since you have been off Zoloft?”
“Months. I don’t want Zoloft. I want someone to tell me what to do! Should I tell Bina? Or should I confront Sanjay?” I ask, feeling helpless.
“Why confront? A very angry word ...”
“I am angry. Not that he’s gay or bisexual. That’s beside the point! He’s cheating on her, it doesn’t matter with who or what, it’s cheating and that will devastate her.”
“Yes. If she doesn’t know already,” Dr. N says with no hint of stupidity.
“Pardon me? Are you saying my best friend is in, like, cahoots with this whole thing?” I ask. “Next you’ll say maybe Bina is also gay.”
“It’s a possibility. You’ve told me she comes from a very traditional family. This may be her way of saving face.” Dr. N crosses her legs.
She’s wearing new Birkenstocks. The price of my emergency session will cover the cost of them.
“That’s impossible. Bina was a regular heterosexual slut during college. If she was a lesbian, she’d tell me.” Or would she? She never let on that she was into this traditional, arranged-marriage thing and, before Sanjay, she hadn’t had a serious boyfriend for a couple of years, but that was because she was too busy with, like, becoming a doctor, which is a totally plausible reason for not dating. She barely had time to shower, sleep or eat. Dating was the last thing on her mind.
Then again, there is her obsession with Emma Thompson. She owns every Emma movie and has even written to her for an autographed picture. I always thought it was because Bina admired her Englishness, now I’m not so sure.
“No, no, it’s impossible. I know plenty of people who are gay or bi. She’s not,” I state firmly. Dr. N is just trying to get me to think “outside my comfort perimeter,” something we’ve been working on since day one of my therapy.
“Why don’t we go over your options?” Dr. N prods. I guess she wants to move this thing along and get to the real juicy stuff. “One option is to do nothing. Another is confronting her fiancé and the third is telling Bina yourself.”
“I can’t obviously do nothing. I couldn’t live with myself, but I don’t want Bina to think of me as the person who outed Sanjay to her. I guess ... I guess I’ll go to him and tell him what I know?” This is the last thing I want to do. There is no love lost between me and Sanjay and I doubt I’ll endear myself to him by outing him a few weeks before his wedding.
“That seems like a good option, given the circumstances. How do you plan to do it?”
I can practically see her ticking off a mental checklist, but since I’m so desperate for a course of action, I’ll let it slide.
“I’ll call him up. Ask him out for coffee, somewhere neutral. I’ll say it’s about the wedding, which won’t be entirely a lie. Then I’ll just tell him what I saw and ask him if Bina knows. Then it’s up to him to do the right thing.” I sit back, feeling exhausted. There, I can wash my hands of the whole thing and just be there for Bina when it hits the fan.
“What if Sanjay doesn’t say anything to Bina? What will you do then?” Dr. N intones.
How freaking annoying. I was done. I’d ventured “outside my comfort perimeter” and there she goes extending the boundaries. (God, I hate Birkenstocks.) Might as well cut to the chase. I know Dr. N wants to hear a firm, concrete, reasonable course of action. I take a deep breath and reflect her enthusiasm for the subject with my own flat reciting of words.
“If he doesn’t fess up, I’ll have to tell her myself. I owe it to her. She’s my best friend. She’d do the same for me,” I say in a rush.
Dr. N nods and purses her lips—her thinking face. I wait.
“How about your other issues, Jacquelyn?” Dr. N asks.
“Which one? There are so many this week, I get confused. Must be drinking too much ... again.” I smirk. I can’t help it. For a whole year I’ve paid this woman to sit and listen to me and to help me figure out the mess that I’d made of my life. And she has helped me, as much as I’ve been willing to let her, but I realize she still doesn’t have the slightest idea who I am. Especially if she buys this crap that I’ve been dishing out lately.
“Are you under stress? Depressed? Anxious?”
“Try all three. I just need some time away. From everyone and everything. Like a fresh start, you know?” Maybe that’s what I do need. Maybe I just need to move away, get a new job, new haircut, sell my memory-haunted flat and start all over.
“It’s understandable that you would feel this way. Being that you are so alienated from your family, don’t have a serious relationship, and troubles with your job and friends. It’s normal to feel like you want to escape or run away, but turning to controlled substances is not a healthy way to do that. Especially considering your family’s background of alcoholism.”
I squirm in my seat. Dr. N is being insightful and accurate and it’s making me uncomfortable. I haven’t had a drink to get drunk since my first semester of college, around the time my dad quit drinking. Unfortunately for my mother, most of his personality went by way of the bottle, down the drain.
“I don’t see a problem with it, honestly. It’s my life. I have a right to live it the way I want and if I don’t want to deal with other people’s problems ...” I falter as Dr. N gives me a piercing look from her muddy brown eyes.
“Jacquelyn, you know and I know that you are not an ambivalent person by nature. You cannot force yourself to stop caring because things are difficult. That’s what you did during your marriage.”
“What’s wrong with being ambivalent? Even clinically ambivalent? I think it’s an underrated virtue.” Really, if anything, Dr. N should be commending me on my ability to be selfish and not be the world’s doormat. “You’ve always said I’ve had a problem with putting myself first.”
“Yes, but this isn’t the type of situation that you can put yourself first in. Is it?”
“No. I guess not.” What good Catholic, even a superlapsed Catholic, could ever put herself first? It goes against our DNA. “I’ll call Sanjay today. As soon as I get to my car, and ask to meet him for coffee. Might as well get it over with. Right?”
“If it feels right for you, I agree.”
“Thanks.” I gather up my bag, the first one George gave me. I wonder if I subconsciously brought it with me so Dr. N would ask me how on earth I could afford a $1,400 purse. She doesn’t, the woman wears Birkenstocks for Christ’s sake.
“About your next appointment ...” Dr. N fiddles with her appointment book. I’m prebooked for two weeks from now. “I was thinking that perhaps you may want to come back next week? Usual time and day.”
“Sure.” I take the appointment card listlessly.
“And, Jacquelyn, it’s not a personal failure if you do decide to go back on Zoloft. Think about it.”
“OK. Thanks. See you next week.”
“Good-bye, Jacquelyn, have a nice day.”
“I will. You, too. Thanks again.” I trudge out of her office, half-hoping she’ll come after me, apologize and say she’ll do the dirty work for me, but of course she doesn’t. I bet she can’t run in those shoes anyway.
BOOK: Underneath It All
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