said abruptly. “We don’t need Elspeth OR Jason fixating on your single friends! The less contact you have the better.”
“There’s no way Elspeth will even consider the pre-schools I’ve scoped out,” I assured her. “And if she continues to oppose my commitment to a Catholic education, I have every right to avoid her. I’m protecting my pregnancy from stress!”
“Maybe you’re not even pregnant.” She signaled for the bill, and flipped her phone open to check the time. “But if you are? I bet you can’t have just one. Nobody has just one these days. Especially bankers.”
Amazing. There is no aspect of mating that eludes Jasmine’s expertise. And the less she knows about it firsthand, the more opinions she has. How many years have I known her? In all this time, she’s had a grand total of one relationship. Jasmine has never even lived with a man.
“Matt’s not just any banker,” I told her. “He’s my husband, and he cares about my well-being.”
“I always said he was a catch! But when you start reproducing your DNA, you enter the primal rat race. You have to keep up.” She pulled a small mirror out of her tote bag. Using the bag as a shield to hide the mirror, she peeked quickly at her lipstick. “If you think you’ll have time to see your johns on the sly, you’re deluding yourself. In case you haven’t noticed, Wall Street’s experiencing a DNA boom. Bankers’ wives don’t do small families anymore. They’re thinking Bumper Crop. They’re as wedded to that reproductive plow as they are to their husbands. A lot of these mega-mommies have powerful ancestral memories. From when their great-great-grandfather was a potato farmer.”
“Where did you hear all this?”
“You’re too close to the situation to see it clearly. Strollers are the new handbags. And children—” she put the mirror away “—are the new potatoes. I follow all the markets, you know. Not just my own.”
She might be right about handbags, but I hope she’s wrong about “new” potatoes. Is she implying that the young bankers are potato farmers?
“And meanwhile, our business is getting more competitive every day.” Jasmine smoothed out her skirt as she stood up. “You’ll be keeping up appearances on two fronts. Trying to be a MILF and a MIFF.”
Okay, I know what a MILF is. A “mom I’d like to fuck.” Fertile, fit, conceivably available, but—
“MIFF?” I asked. “What the hell’s a MIFF?”
As we left the bar, I realized that my phone was vibrating, but I didn’t want to draw more attention to myself by answering while the uniformed staff eyed our legs. Jasmine cocked her head to one side and whispered: “A mom I frequently fuck.” On the sidewalk, she adjusted her sunglasses and said, in that dark tone which precedes one of her flights of wisdom, “No woman can serve two masters.”
A man in a very good gray suit wandered past the hotel, and she swept some hair behind her ears, with a little smirk. Losing her previous train of thought, she followed his progress to the corner of Seventy-seventh and Mad, where he turned around to gaze at us—even though his light was green. Jasmine seemed to be daring him to walk back to the hotel entrance. In summery heels (me), and ladylike flats (her), we appeared almost the same height. God knows what he was thinking. He was certainly the right age for us. A pampered sixty-something.
“Cut that out,” I hissed. “We’re way too dressed up for you to be doing this. The doorman’s looking right at you!”
In the cab, on the way home, I checked my voicemail.
A message from Matt about our dinner plans with Elspeth and Jason. “He’s got a meeting, so it’ll be a threesome. Want to meet at their place?” It would be nice to have Jason at the table to dilute Elspeth, but the less I see of him, the better. Ever since I ran into him in front of my health club, following Allie around like an infatuated puppy, I’ve been afraid to have more than a five-minute conversation with him. As far as Jason knows, Allie’s just a girl I know from Pilates class: he thinks he’s protecting her secret from ME. And, if Jason finds out how much I know about his very private midlife crisis, my entire cover will be blown.
Followed by a message from Charmaine, alerting me to the status of our Seventy-ninth Street time-share: “I’m leaving at seven for an outcall. I changed the sheets, in case you need the apartment, but I have to come back for a ten-thirty.” Ever since we had that disagreement about her new customers, she makes a point of giving me extra time in the apartment.
A final voicemail, from Etienne, promising to call this week with his travel plans: “I am on my way to Cologne, cocotte. When I have my schedule for New York, you will hear from me.”
If I’m pregnant, I hope he shows up before I start to show. It’s been almost a year since his last visit!
Tuesday, June 11
Last night, I miscalculated.
Although I timed myself to arrive on the late side—so Matt would be there to protect me from his sister’s questions—I was early. Elspeth’s front door was open, which seems rash, even in Carnegie Hill with a twenty-four-hour doorman. I never leave the door ajar when I can’t actually see who’s coming in. As a hooker, I’m supposed to be paranoid. The minute you’re not, other hookers think you’re losing your marbles. But shouldn’t Elspeth be cautious, too? When she was an assistant DA, she worked on some high-profile murder trials—what if someone with a grudge sneaks into her building? How can she be so confident of her safety?
While I stood in front of the hall mirror, powdering my nose, I could hear her, in the back of the apartment, chattering with the au pair in the twins’ bedroom. One baby was making a happy gurgling sound. For the first time, I felt sure this was Bridget. Usually, my niece and nephew sound alike. The fact that they often gurgle in unison doesn’t help, but this time, when Berrigan joined in, I could pick out two distinct voices. My maternal antennae must be emerging!
As I listened to the boy-girl duet, I stared at myself in the mirror, and looked for some obvious signs of impending motherhood. I suppose it’s too soon, but they say your hair becomes fuller. Will I be able to throw out my Velcro rollers?
“Nancy!” Like a thief caught in the act, I jumped at the sound of Elspeth’s voice. “Sit down, you look GREAT, honey, I didn’t hear you come in, that’s what happens,” she cackled, “when you get lost in the BACK ROOM! Where’s darling hubby? Mine can’t make it.”
“Too bad,” I lied, feeling smug about my ability to avoid Jason.
As I maneuvered past the double stroller—Elspeth’s “baby Hummer”—it occurred to me that strollers are more like handbags than Jasmine realizes. You fall in love with one designer’s perfect model, only to find you don’t really like their colors. And you can’t have exactly the same bag or stroller as everyone else—especially when everyone else is your sister-in-law.
My search for a houndstooth Peg Pérego baby carriage has been fruitless, but I’m not giving up.
I intend to own this pregnancy! Unlike Elspeth, who covers all her baby furniture with gingham, I’m never allowing that stuff to darken our door—and I intend to keep working. Even though, as Jasmine says, I don’t have to hustle like Trish.
I waited quietly for Matt to arrive. Jasmine’s the only person who
