fact that I even acknowledged her so favorably appeared to have propelled her into a state of disbelief, as the corner of Seventieth and Madison just received the MUTE switch.
Taking the moment to scan her billboard and signage, the reason for her not getting a real job and spending her afternoons to take out some frustrations that may be better serviced in a therapist’s office, I saw she had been protesting about a woman’s right to choose.
And here she tried to target me, when back in one particularly promiscuous summer I bought pregnancy kits that came two to a pack—a staunch one-issue voter—a poor utilization of one’s time indeed. She needed to implement a Smythson business planner system. But, from the look of her, she may have been more of the Filofax type.
Once I moved away from the radius of her pitched space, it was as if my safety barrier had been broken. Her yelling resumed.
“You have a choice!” she called, to my back.
Punching in Daphne’s number on my cell, I spoke quietly, as I found it discourteous to chatter about in public. Then the world’s loudest bus approached. The world’s loudest bus then stopped, directly in front of me.
“Hello?” said a barely audible voice on the other end of the receiver.
“Hey. Emily?” I screeched, not to myself but my goddaughter. “Is your mom there?” I yelled over rude bus noise and waved about the air of exhaust that would need about a week’s worth of facials before clearing the grime to get back to my natural skin tone.
“Yeah, she’s here. Hold on. Hey, where are you? Mommy said you were coming over, and I wanted to show you my blue dress. I have shoes and gloves that match with a little bag because I am a real lady.”
The girl had become her godmother in training.
“Soon, love. I’m just approaching your building.”
“Yeah!” she wailed. I could picture her engulfing the receiver like a lion swallowing his trainer’s head.
Now that I was hearing-impaired, Daphne came on the phone.
“Emily? I thought you were coming by at two?”
“Sorry,” I whispered. “A little held up, but I’m outside your building right now.”
“Oh dear lord, speak up! No one is listening to your conversation. Speaking on cell phones is quite common these days, you know. See you soon,” she said, hanging up.
I walked into a small Frenchwoman, knocking her over actually. She scrambled to the ground somewhat melodramatically. I offered my cell phone hand, but she started swatting at me, yelling “Merde! Imbecile! Dans la lune!”
Using my high school level French to interpret, I knew this was bad. I tossed my phone in one of my bags to quickly rid myself of the evidence and dashed into Daphne’s building, because lawsuits didn’t fit into my budget right about now.
I loved Daphne’s house. I dubbed it my “Safe Place.” No harm could happen to you here, aside from a child swinging from the shower curtain after watching Tarzan (which is now banned from their household) or a tricycle slamming into a falling Christmas tree (caught on video but erased by a distraught Emily). Now that I think of it, it seemed quite surprising how few visits Daphne’s children had to Lenox Hill Hospital. But Daphne, dubbed the Madonna of Moms, had the kind of knowledge of whether Cheerios is better than Chex and can rattle on about glycemic and fiber indexes like traders following the yen.
The living room was painted in a shade of dove gray that sprouted from parquet herringbone floors and covered with art bid on from auction sales you read about in the next day’s papers. Recently coming into some money from a wealthy aunt with no children of her own—the best kind—Daphne used some of her inheritance to buy a few incredible works of art, complemented by a smattering of scooters, toys, and stuffed animals gobbled by the couch’s crease.
Always undergoing a constant state of transformation (not counting Emily and Henry’s growth spurts), the kitchen usually had large tarpaulins draped around like backdrops in a photographer’s studio. Since Daphne ran her own catering company, she had to keep up with the latest kitchen accessories the way I keep up with boots.
Daphne even rivaled my mother in the number of renovations she gave her kitchen. Whenever they met, they shared this secret language of contractors, architects, and new stoves the way a W accessories editor sought to discover a burgeoning jewelry designer. Daphne always appreciated Mom’s recommendations for her experienced eye, while Mom loved Daphne’s young, modern approach.
She greeted me at the entrance with her expensive hair, dressed in white denim pants, a charcoal sweater, and fitted jean jacket. Either she just came from Vera Wang or this was the Upper East Side uniform. Her long blond hair was brushed back, delicately balancing on the tips of her ear lobes before it naturally cascaded past her shoulders. Not even a jog in the park would undo her natural style. I’ve asked her many times in the past how she could keep her hair so perfectly, but she’d respond rather evasively, guarding her secret as would a director of CIA military operatives.
I always felt disheveled, inadequate next to Daphne. Her clothes came from the tissue wrapping of roped shopping bags and slipped onto her tiny frame. Her delicate features were prim, her profile simple and perfect like the cutout from an old-fashioned silhouette.
In that Sixty-ninth and Park tone, she said, “So? Let’s see it.”
See what?
“Emily? The ring! I’m surprised you haven’t smacked me in the face with it.”
I raised my hand languorously. Daphne took a firm grasp; her eyes widened, but not from trying to spot the diamond.
“Lord of the rings!”
“Yes, I thought the movie was too hyped as well.”
“What the hell is this?” she said, dropping my hand. “It looks like Emily’s missing tooth covered in silver magic marker!”
“Emily’s missing a tooth?”
But from the anger in Daphne’s voice, I could tell we weren’t about to discuss her daughter’s missing tooth.
“Emily, this is completely unacceptable. You have to get rid of it.”
I regressed back to when I used to steal neighborhood pets, pawn them off as strays to my mom, and ask if we could keep them.
“I can’t just return it like some sweater that I got in the wrong size.”
“Why not? It clearly doesn’t fit, so you have the perfect out.”
As I was about to give my rebuttal, Daphne interrupted, “Don’t give me the sentimental value line, which went out with drafty old castles.”
I wanted to write an anonymous letter to Daphne’s editor at Gourmet, saying her recipes made my guests suffer from salmonella, do things that placed me in a school therapist’s deviant file.
“But it was Henry’s grandmother’s,” I said in a final effort.
“Did she make pies for a living?”
“Apparently
