Not Ready for Mom Jeans (24 page)

“Holy shit!” she interrupted me.

“What? You almost made me spill my wine,” I said, and daintily took a sip.

“Look!” She pointed across the bar.

I followed her self-tanning-lotion-streaked finger over to a corner of the bar. My gaze rested on two women huddled together, one with gorgeous highlighted blond hair floating around her shoulders in cascading waves and a brunette with glossy chestnut hair and bangs cut severely across her forehead. Two pink cocktails sat in front of them, lipstick staining the glasses. I didn’t recognize them at first, so I squinted and leaned forward. The blonde looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place her.

“OK, I give up, who are they?” I said to Julie, and shrugged.

“Seriously? You don’t recognize the blonde?”

I looked again.

“Nope.”

“How about if I say news anchor?”

“No!” My mouth dropped open. I looked one more time. “Elise Stansfield? The former news anchor?”

“Yep! Isn’t she amazing?” Julie whispered.

“Julie, there were rumors she slept with sources for information!” I said as I, like everyone else in the place, tried not to stare at Elise.

“Completely unfounded rumors. Never proven true,” Julie said as she waved her hand around dismissively.

“She was fired, her husband divorced her, no news station will hire her, there was that huge article about how she’s lost everything in the newspaper last year, and you envy her?” I shook my head, incredulous.

Julie pursed her lips and rolled her eyes. “She’s a legend now. Her story was on the front page of every newspaper. ‘Beloved Anchorwoman Falls from Grace.’ So cool,” she sighed.

“Can you imagine, though? Her whole life was basically ripped to shreds and they never proved anything. She went from being one of the most famous, revered people in the city to being … nothing. Trash. Her name has been on the Do Not Invite list for every event I’ve done in the past year.” I leaned forward and put my chin in my hands. “I bet she didn’t even do anything wrong.” I stole another glance at Elise. “She kind of fell victim to the Lloyd Dobler thing,” I said, and shook my head.

“What?” Julie furrowed her penciled-in brow.

“The perception that people are in real life they way they are in movies or on TV. It’s from John Cusack in the movie
Say Anything.
He played this really amazing, unbelievable boyfriend in that movie, and people loved him for it. So when they come up to him, they expect him to be as nice and sweet as Lloyd Dobler and if he isn’t people are horrified. I think he talked about it in an interview once.”

“How does this relate to Elise?”

“She was a loved newswoman. People projected their own expectations on her. And when she made a mistake, the shit hit the fan.”

“Whatever you say, Freud,” she said. “Was
Say Anything
that movie with the guy who stood outside his girlfriend’s house with the boom box?”

“That’s the one. Such a great scene,” I sighed.

“Great scene, my ass. There’s a mentally ill man who stands outside my building and blasts music all the time. I usually end up calling the cops on him.”

“Calling the cops on Lloyd Dobler. Only you would do something like that.”

“Yes, I would,” she said, and gazed across the bar.

“Another round?” I said.

Nothing.

“Julie?”

She stared at Elise.

“Yo, freak!” I said, and waved my hand in front of her face.

“What? Oh, sorry. Sure, whatever. I’ll take another glass of wine,” she said, and held up her empty wineglass, her eyes across the bar.

“No way, this round’s on you, remember?”

“What?”

“Forget it,” I sighed, and called to the bartender.

I was finally able to get Julie’s eyes back to me after I waved my new Dior lip gloss in front of her face and promised to let her try it. After that, I kept her focus by telling her a story about a good vibrator advertisement.

We managed to have an actual conversation until two seats opened up next to us at the bar and Elise Stansfield and her brunette friend moved and sat down. Julie’s eyes became as round as my belly at nine months pregnant and she uncharacteristically became silent.

“Get over it.” I rolled my eyes and swished my wine around in the glass.

We sat silently, Julie starstruck and me studying the gunk trapped in my engagement ring setting.

“… no time. Between the guest list, band, favors, presents, and everything, I think I’m going to explode. It’s ridiculous what these parties have become,” I overheard Elise say to her friend.

Her friend nodded. “Don’t feel like you have to put yourself out. It’s just a party.”

“No, it’s not just a party. You can’t throw ‘just a party.’ These have become such a big deal,” Elise said, and fluffed her hair around her shoulders.

“Clare, are you ready—,” Julie finally said.

“Shhhhh,” I hissed at her, and poked her in the knee.

“You should just hire someone to take care of everything for you. Honey, you don’t have the time,” the friend said.

“I know. I should. Let’s talk about something else. I’m getting stressed at even the notion. So how’s Judy?” Elise said.

I reached into my purse and felt my leather business card holder. Despite my choices and decisions tearing me apart inside and still not being ready to choose black or white, I knew I had to do it. My indecision does not excuse me from moving my career forward and landing new clients.

“Sure, let’s go,” I said to Julie. “Get the check.”

I took a deep breath and stood up. I straightened my tweed skirt and tucked my hair behind my ears. I took a step toward Elise.

“What are you doing?” Julie rasped.

I held my hand up and walked over to Elise and her friend.

“Hi. Excuse me, I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation. I’m Clare Finnegan and I work for Signature Events, a premiere event-planning firm. If you’re ever interested in hiring a professional for your event, please keep me in mind.” I thrust my business card forward.

Elise stared at me for a moment with her flashing green eyes before she reached forward and took the card out of my hand.

“Thank you”—she looked down at my card—“Clare.” She turned away from me and took a sip of her cocktail.

I knew I’d been dismissed.

“Let’s go.” I yanked Julie’s arm and managed to walk outside without tripping over anything.

“I can’t believe you had the balls to talk to her!” Julie panted.

“Please.” I waved my hand around. “She doesn’t scare me. She’s just a canned news anchor.”

“A canned news anchor who has a shitload of money, tons of famous friends, and who is known by probably eighty percent of the city.”

“Exactly. Which means a huge budget for whatever party’s in the works.” I grinned at Julie and stuck my hand out to hail a cab.

“God, you’re such a badass, finding clients at happy hour.”

“I know,” I said, and ran my fingers through my hair.

It was one of the rare moments in my life when I felt pretty cool and it wasn’t tempered by me publicly embarrassing myself in some way. I’m surprised I didn’t trip and spill red wine all over Elise’s gorgeous cashmere twinset.

Later, as I got home and replayed the conversation in my head, a small thought began to drill itself into my head. I started to wonder if I approached Elise to prove something to myself. Not just about landing a client myself, but to prove that I could land a client like her.

I’m not going to analyze that to death. Instead, I’m just going to focus my energy on praying that Elise calls. Because Mule Face will die if I land a famous client, albeit a local client more infamous than famous, but still. She’ll shit in her elastic-waist parachute pants.

Friday, August 1

My ego was still sailing this morning on the way to Sara’s day-care. I mentally planned the entire sure-to-be-elegant-but-understated-and-full-of-years’-worth-of-gossip soiree at each stoplight.

I’d sit all of the Hollywood types around the venue, so as not to isolate them. I wondered if the event would be at Elise’s sprawling estate on the lake or some hip club in the city. Obviously, an enormous stocked bar with a signature cocktail and drink menus printed on custom-designed parchment paper. Just as I chose the table linens (eggshell, rather than standard white—too stark and traditional) and centerpieces (either an Asian twist with bamboo plants and hibiscus flowers or simple candelabras surrounded by floating gardenias), my cell phone rang.

Reese. I figured she’d been up for a few hours anyway with Brendan and wanted to lament about motherhood.

“Hey! What’s up?” I said cheerfully, very uncharacteristic for eight thirty.

“Clare,” she squeaked out.

“Reese, what’s wrong?”

I heard a few sniffles, then silence.

“Reese! Reese! Are you OK? What’s going on?”

“I did it,” she whispered into the phone. I could hear Grace babbling in the background and Brendan making gurgling noises, like a miniature troll.

“Did what?”

“Matt. I asked him to move out.” Her voice squeaked like a mouse.

I immediately pulled my car over, nearly sideswiping an old woman in a red Camry who was so busy shaking her fist at me that
she
nearly rear-ended the car in front of her.

“Oh my God! Are you OK? What happened?”

“We hadn’t spoken in almost three days, and this morning, he turned to leave without saying good-bye to the kids. So I just snapped. I didn’t raise my voice; I didn’t yell. I just simply told him I didn’t think it was working and I would like him to move out, but I was willing to still work on things.”

“Oh, honey,” I said, and rested my head on the steering wheel.

“I’m fine, I’ll be OK.” She cleared her throat and sniffled.

“What did he say?” I said.

“He didn’t really say anything. He just stared at me for a while and then said, ‘If that’s what you want,’ and walked out the door.”

Such. An. Asshole.

If I married Reese, I’d swim across shark-infested waters during a hurricane to keep her.

“What can I do?” Sara began to cry in the backseat. I reached my hand back and grabbed her car seat and awkwardly tried to rock her without dislocating my shoulder.

“Nothing. I’m great. Don’t worry about me. I know you need to get to work.” Her voice cracked in between words, as though worrying about her was a lost cause.

“No, Reese, this is more important than—,” I started to say.

“Just call me after work,” she said.

“Reese—”

“Clare. Please,” she said.

“OK, I’ll call you later.” I hung up, my fingers shaking.

I started to pull back onto the road, toward Sara’s day-care and work. I went about ten feet before I pulled my car over again. I snapped open my phone and dialed Christina’s extension and left a message letting her know I was taking a personal day off. She didn’t sound thrilled, especially after the whole Leaving Early Due to Hitting incident, but Reese was more important. I next called day-care and said she wouldn’t be in today. I got back on the highway and drove over to Reese’s house.

She answered the door in full makeup and wedge heels.

“You look better than I do.” I laughed.

“I knew you’d show up, so I figured I should look halfway decent,” she said as she leaned forward to hug me.

“Reese, your ‘halfway decent’ is my ‘oh-my-God-I’ve-never-looked-better-in-my-life,’ ” I said as I held her bony shoulders tightly to me.

She thinly smiled as I released her. She turned to Sara. “She’s getting so big,” Reese said as she kissed Sara on the cheek.

We walked into Reese’s family room, which was uncharacteristically quiet.

“Where are the kids?” I asked as I craned my neck.

“Down for their naps, thankfully,” she said. She sat down on her leather couch and leaned her head back and closed her eyes.

“Are you sure there’s nothing I can do?” I said as I sat Sara down on the couch next to Reese.

Reese opened her beautiful blue eyes and looked down at Sara for a long time. Sara stared back at her, transfixed by the petite woman next to her. Reese looked up at me, her eyes red and rimmed with tears. She twisted her hands in her lap and two perfect tears dropped across her cheeks.

“Oh, Reese,” I said, and grabbed her hand. “You’re going to be just fine.”

She nodded and brushed two manicured fingers across her cheeks. “I still have most of my trust money, so I’m going to be OK.”

I nodded. “Have you told your parents?”

She laughed ruefully. “Not exactly.”

I figured she hadn’t. I’m sure they’re not going to be exactly thrilled to hear their daughter and their perfect son-in-law are separated, let alone heading for divorce. In her family, “looking the other way” is an art form.

“I’m starting DePaul in a few weeks,” she said, changing the subject.

“That’s so great. I think it’s definitely a smart move. How long will it take to get your master’s?” I asked.

“Two years. I can’t wait to go back to teaching.” She smiled.

“You’re the perfect teacher. You’re blessed with the patience of a saint,” I said.

I looked around her house and I saw beautiful Pottery Barn end tables, sparkling Tiffany vases, and elaborate flower arrangements, but all that registered was gray. Reese had spent her life drawing lines between black and white, and now, despite her best efforts, the barrier had been removed and everything was awash with gray. Beautiful, perfect house and wonderful children, but no husband.