“She’s very hurt and very sorry for what she said that night. Isn’t it time to forgive?”
“I can’t believe she’s using you guys to get to me. And I can’t believe you’re falling for it.”
“She is your sister,” Nancy said.
Corrine could imagine her staging this, like a scene from one of her books. If she was really unlucky, it might become a scene in one of Nancy’s books.
“And she’s…” Veronica let the predicate hang, unspoken.
“Let me guess: the mother of my children.”
“I wasn’t going to say it like that. But she did a wonderful thing for you twelve years ago, and surely that counts for something.”
“She wants to know the kids. She misses them. Shouldn’t she have that right?”
“I kind of like the status quo. Honestly, it’s been much less stressful not having her around.”
“Corrine, let’s be honest,” Nancy said. “You’re a little insecure about the whole biological mother thing.”
“I resent that.”
“I know you do. That’s because it’s true. I’m sorry, I love you, but I think you’re almost grateful to have an excuse to keep Hilary away from the kids.”
“I am. She’s a train wreck.”
“Yes, but that’s not what I mean. You’re afraid of what kind of relationship might develop.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it? Come on, Corrine, this is me you’re talking to. I know you.”
Veronica seemed content to sit on the sidelines for the moment.
“Even if you’re right about me, there’s Russell to consider. He’s told me many times he’ll be happy if he never lays eyes on her again.”
“Well, I’m sure you could change his mind.”
“I’m not so sure.”
Nancy’s phone, which was on the table in front of her, buzzed and vibrated.
“She’s here,” she said.
“You didn’t.”
“Just hear her out.”
“I can’t believe you set me up like this,” she said, seeing Hilary coming toward them on the arm of the maître d’. When Corrine saw how sheepish and cowed she looked, she lost her steely resolve, and by the time Hilary got to the table, her face was quivering with the attempt to contain her emotion. Corrine stood and hugged her sister, irritated at her own soppy reaction.
“I knew if you just saw each other—” Nancy said.
“Oh, shut up,” Corrine said, sitting back down.
“Hey, sis,” Hilary said. “I like your jacket.”
“It’s an old hand-me-down from Casey and I’m sure you’ve seen it before.”
“Chanel is Chanel is Chanel,” Nancy said.
“Is that Shakespeare?” Veronica asked.
“I think it’s Gertrude Stein,” Nancy said. “Well, anyway, Hilary, you look good.”
“I’ve been on a juice fast the last three days, but the sad truth is, I still look at least a year older than I did when you last saw me.”
She did look older to Corrine. Although still annoyingly pretty and shapely, she seemed to have finally entered middle age—if just barely—having belatedly lost her teenaged aspect, although this perception might have been abetted by her outfit, a white blouse buttoned to the neck under a gray suit with a knee-length pencil skirt, the most sensible and sober ensemble Corrine had seen her sister wear since their Nana’s funeral. She was definitely playing the penitent.
“So,” Hilary said. “How’s Russell?”
“Nothing changes chez Calloway. You haven’t missed much.”
Hilary asked for a Bloody Mary and examined her menu. “What should I order?”
“The Cobb salad is the thing to get,” Nancy said. “They have this huge menu, but for some reason nobody ever orders anything else. If you want to feel like a regular, order the Cobb salad and ask them to hold the bacon, the blue cheese, the egg and the dressing.”
“What’s left besides lettuce?”
“Not much. Water and fiber and the sweet smell of self-denial.”
“Actually, that doesn’t sound bad,” said Corrine. It was just the sort of thing that drove Russell crazy; she could hear him saying, Cheese and bacon is what makes it a Cobb salad, goddamn it, but unlike most humans, she wasn’t all that crazy about either, and she hated heavy lunches. She didn’t like walking around feeling like a stuffed sausage in the afternoon. When the waiter returned, Corrine ordered the Cobb without the cheese and bacon. She retained the egg, though, and asked for the dressing on the side.
The waiter listened stoically as each of them subtracted ingredients from their salads. “Anything to start?” he asked wistfully.
“Let’s get a bottle of wine,” said Nancy.
Hilary seconded the motion; Corrine found herself distracted by the sight of her husband, who was being escorted into the room by Declan, the eponymous host.
“Of all the gin joints in town,” Russell said.
“I hope you’re not having lunch with your girlfriend,” Declan said, mugging and winking.
Russell was maneuvering into position to kiss Nancy when he spotted Hilary and blanched.
“Hello, bro.”
“Hilary.” An acknowledgment, almost an exclamation, but less than a greeting. He looked stunned.
“You can blame me,” Nancy said. “I engineered this little reunion without your wife’s knowledge.”
Russell nodded contemplatively. Polite as he was, he was not ready to pretend he was okay with this.
“I could have sworn you said you didn’t come here anymore,” Corrine said, hoping to alleviate the tension. “I know I heard someone say he was tired of these uptown power lunch spots and he was going to make the world come downtown.”
“My dining companion specifically requested this venue.”
“Is your lunch date a superficial narcissist?” Nancy asked.
“Wait a minute, what does that make us?” Corrine asked.
“I’m meeting Phillip Kohout,” Russell said.
“Oh my God,” Hilary said. “Introduce me, please.”
“Me first,” Nancy countered.
“I’m sure he’ll be delighted to sign a few autographs,” Russell said. “In the meantime, I’ll leave you ladies to it.”
“Well, that seemed…fine,” Nancy said, clueless.
“If you mean there wasn’t any profanity or violence,” Corrine said, “then yes, it was a huge success.”
“Russell’s a gentleman,” said Veronica.
Corrine was tempted to take off her jacket—it was like a sauna in here—but she felt self-conscious about her arms, the flab under her biceps. “God, is anybody else hot?” she asked, fanning herself with the menu.
Veronica exchanged knowing looks with Nancy.
“What?” Corrine said.
“It’s not actually hot,” Nancy said.
“I’m practically freezing,” Hilary said.
“Well, I’m hot.”
“It’s…the change,” Nancy said.
“What change?”
“Hot flashes?”
“What? No way,” Corrine said, even as she wondered. She had been getting hot recently, especially at night, waking up in a sweat, and her period was two weeks overdue.
“Are you having trouble lubricating?”
“Lubricating?”
“You know, sexually.”
“For God’s sake,” Corrine said. “I’m just a little warm.” It seemed as if there was a pause, a dialing down of the volume in the room, as heads turned toward the entryway, where Phillip Kohout was shaking hands with Brian Williams. Escorted by the solicitous Declan, he stopped at several tables to shake hands and kiss cheeks.
“I wouldn’t mind sharing a cell with him,” Nancy said.
“He’s shorter than I expected.”
“Aren’t they always.”
As he was passing, he caught sight of Corrine and said, “My God, it’s true, everyone’s here. Corrine, you’re a vision.”
He dipped in to squeeze her shoulder, and then, when this move wasn’t rebuffed, he kissed her cheek.
“And you, Phillip, are a flatterer and a clichémonger.”
“Please, Corrine,” Nancy said. “Is that any way to talk to a war hero?”
“Ms. Tanner, I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” he said. “But of course I’m a big fan of your work.”
“Well, likewise,” she said. “And I admire your courage.”
“It doesn’t take much courage to get captured, I’m afraid.”
Much as she was remembering how much she disliked him and his smarmy charm, Corrine didn’t forget her manners. “Phillip, this is my friend Veronica Lee and my sister, Hilary.” Only belatedly did she realize she hadn’t afforded Hilary the courtesy of a surname, but Phillip’s reaction made it clear he didn’t require one.
After politely shaking Veronica’s hand, he clutched Hilary’s as if she were in imminent danger of falling out of her chair.
“How is it that Corrine never told me she had a sister?”
“When it comes to her intellectual friends, she’s basically ashamed of me.”
“Perhaps there’s another reason she’s kept you hidden.”
“It’s true,” Corrine said. “I’m quite protective of my little sister’s innocence.” She couldn’t quite believe that no one laughed at this.
“Well, if I promise to get her home early, perhaps you’d allow me to take her out for a drink. Only if she’s of legal drinking age, of course.”
Corrine was afraid she was going to vomit right here at the table before this grotesque insipidity was terminated with Hilary’s giving him her phone number.
“Farewell, fair ladies,” Phillip said before sliming off to Russell’s table.
“Isn’t he the charmer,” said Nancy. “He actually looks cuter in person.”
“How is it that he’s single?” Hilary asked.
“I think he was married, briefly,” Corrine said.
“What’s happened to Dan?” asked Veronica.
“Well, actually we’re not together anymore,” Hilary said. “I loved Dan—I mean, he’s a great guy and all—but ultimately it just couldn’t work. Our backgrounds were just too different. Look, we try to pretend we’re a classless society, but we’re not, and his guilt over his divorce really dragged our relationship down. Last I heard, he was about to move back in with his ex-wife, which is fine with me. Though it makes me kind of wonder, you know, what was the point of our whole relationship.”
“From his point of view,” Nancy said, “I’d guess he probably got some excellent sex.”
“I’ve already gotten two drunken late-night booty calls,” Hilary said. “But it’s over. I’ve moved on, and he will, too.”
Corrine already knew about the split but wanted to hear Hilary’s take. She found her little sister’s snobbery kind of amusing, this idea of some great class divide between them. If anything, Dan, with his Queens College degree, was far better educated than Hilary, who dropped out of horsey Hollins after freshman year, though it was true she’d attended some of the country’s more prestigious boarding schools—all of which eventually requested that she leave. Corrine had always believed Dan was a decent man, not to mention a steadying influence, and she was sorry he was gone. He was also the breadwinner, which raised the question of how Hilary was supporting herself—the answer to which was usually synonymous with whomever she was sleeping with.
“I’m working on a pilot for a TV show—kind of a Sex and the City, but grittier,” Hilary said after Veronica broached the subject of employment. “And I had a part in Law & Order last month.”
“Is that still shooting?” Veronica asked.
“I love Law & Order,” Nancy said.
“And that pays the rent?” Corrine asked skeptically.
Nancy gave her a look.
“I’m actually staying at a friend’s place on 57th right now. It’s pretty nice. You should come see it.”
Ah yes, a friend.
The denuded Cobbs arrived, large white bowls of naked lettuce, along with a bottle of Pinot Grigio. Everything was either white or green.
“Maybe I could get you a part in my movie,” Nancy said.
“Is it happening?”
“We start shooting this summer in New York.”
“That’s great.”
“Well, it’s ninety percent,” Nancy said. The adaptation of her second novel had been on the verge of getting made for the last five or six years, not actually that long, when you considered the history of Youth and Beauty.
“Who’s playing you?”
“Well, it’s not really me,” Nancy said. “I mean, it is fiction.”
“Of course,” Veronica said. “The plucky blond protagonist bears no resemblance to her creator.”
“I think Jennifer Aniston would be perfect,” Hilary said.
“Too goody-goody,” Nancy said. This subject of who should play Nancy’s alter ego had been a recurring theme for years. So far as Corrine knew, no one had ever proposed an actress whom Nancy hadn’t found fault with.
“What about your movie?” Hilary asked. “The one based on Jeff’s book.”
“I’m not holding my breath. I haven’t heard anything since I turned in the last draft in September.”
“I saw a kid reading the novel on the subway last week,” Veronica said.
Corrine nodded. “Russell says the sales are rising steadily. It’s become a bit of a cult novel on campuses.”
Nancy said, “Did I mention I’m speaking at Vassar next month?”
—
After lunch, Corrine went to the office, where she regretted that glass of Pinot Grigio when she started to doze off in front of her computer. She needed to make sure there were enough volunteers for this week’s Greenmarket food rescue; right now, she was three short. Four days a week, their volunteers scoured the Union Square Greenmarket at closing time for unsold produce. She should have hit up her lunch partners, the salad strippers; she was still irritated at being ambushed like that, but the idea of Hilary or Nancy volunteering was laughable. Yet she’d been moved, in spite of herself, to see her sister, although she didn’t want to do it too often, and she still didn’t think she was a great influence on the kids.
—
At five-fifteen she left to pick up Jeremy at his karate class. He’d resisted most of their attempts to interest him in athletics, but Russell had watched a few samurai movies with him, and most of the weird cartoons and video games he liked seemed to be inspired by Japanese martial arts; karate had dovetailed neatly with the aesthetic of Pokémon and Digimon and Dragon Ball Z. As it turned out, the Japanese hadn’t conquered the United States, as it was feared they might in the mid-eighties when they bought Sony and Rockefeller Center; back then, every best-selling business book was, more or less, some Way of the Samurai knockoff. But they’d definitely achieved a lock on the fantasy life of young American boys.
“The sensei gave me an excellent for my Heian Nidan kata,” he told her, emerging from the dojo with his backpack.
“That sounds very good.”
“It has twenty-six moves and it’s really difficult to master.”
“Way to go, Jeremy.”
“Probably, if somebody tried to mug us on the street, I could take him.”
“Well that’s good to know, but I don’t think there are that many muggers out there.” It used to be a rite of passage; all of her friends had been mugged in the eighties and she’d had a purse snatched on the number 6 train in ’81; Russell had outrun a pair of thugs in the West Village not long after, or so he claimed, but lately you didn’t hear about these things happening in Manhattan.
“Dylan Lefkowitz’s sister got mugged last week,” he said. “Some Hispanic dudes stole her cell phone.”
“Well, I hope you’re not planning on using karate on the street.”
When they arrived home, Storey and Jean were just returning from French club. “Did Russell say anything
about dinner tonight?” Corrine asked Jean.
“He say the kids get takeout from Bubby’s. It’s Monday.”
“Oh, damn.” Corrine had forgotten it was date night, a tradition they observed as frequently as they could. She so didn’t feel like it, having already had a big lunch; plus, all of a sudden she felt as if she was finally going to get her period any minute now—having gotten strangely irregular lately after years of twenty-eight-day cycles. She wondered if the girls were right about her being perimenopausal. It’s not that she would miss her period, God knows, but she was afraid of losing some vital aspect of femininity.
After feeding the kids and supervising homework, she and Russell had walked up the street to Odeon, which had been around as long as they had, surviving relentless new trends in cuisine and restaurant design, its retro neon diner facade resembling some lost Edward Hopper painting from the forties, though in fact it had opened its doors in the Reagan era. For Russell, it had the melancholy patina of several fondly remembered meals in the company of Jeff Pierce; there wasn’t that much left of the New York he’d inhabited. For Corrine, who hadn’t been present on most of those boys’ night out occasions, it had the virtues of being a block from their loft and serving a classic chèvre and frisée salad.
There was also the bonus, for him, of being greeted by name by the young woman at the front podium, and escorted to their regular table. Russell was no different from any other denizen of the city in his need to be recognized and coddled in his own corner of the metropolis.
While he and the hostess chatted, her mind drifted to Luke, at his faraway winery. Or maybe he was at the game farm? He’d called a few days ago to say he was coming to town next week. They hadn’t made specific plans, but he’d made it clear he wanted to see her. And while she hadn’t been quite as explicit, she wanted to see him, too, though she couldn’t really justify this sentiment.
Suddenly the hostess was gone and Russell said, “Please don’t tell me Hilary is back in our life.”
“Well, I didn’t make any dates, obviously. And just so you know, I had no idea she was going to be there.”
“Dare I ask what she’s been doing?”
“I told you she broke up with Dan six or seven months ago and now she claims she’s writing a TV pilot.”