Hostile Makeover (7 page)

“He gave me the absolute dregs of the advertising world. The littlest, piddliest, most ridiculous waste-of-time accounts in the history of the world.” She took a deep breath and told herself she would not cry. “He demoted me!”

Howard Mellnick made a note on the pad in front of him. “And you think he’s just trying to make you quit.”

“No, I
know
he’s trying to make me quit.”

“And so you dug in your heels.” He studied her for a long moment. “Why?”

“Because . . .” Despite years in this very chair, self-examination did not come easily. “Because nobody, and especially not Ross Morgan, is going to shove me out of my family business.”

Howard Mellnick looked up and out the window for a moment then back at her. “So you’re staying because he wants you to leave.”

“Yes! No!” She groaned. “I don’t know.” She stared at him, miserable. “Does it really matter why?”

Howard Mellnick sat back, crossed his legs, and propped his yellow pad up on his knee. Apparently this was one of those questions she was supposed to answer for herself.

“All I know is, I’m not quitting. And as crappy as that list is, I’m going to have to
do
something with it.”

He made another note on his pad. “You know, getting rid of the family dynamic and the attached emotion could prove to be a positive. If you’re not carrying any of the old baggage, you should be able to travel . . . lighter. It’s fortunate your relationship with Ross Morgan has always been strictly business.”

Shelley suspected this would be the time to tell Dr. Mellnick about her and Ross and the supply closet. Except she was still trying to blot out that memory, and there were some things that were too embarrassing to share with your shrink; even one as nonjudgmental as Howard Mellnick.

“You know, Shelley,” he said, “this could turn out to be a good time to prove yourself. To yourself.”

Easy for him to say; he didn’t have Ross Morgan looking over his shoulder, waiting for him to fail. Still, she kind of liked the sound of it. “When I referred to my new accounts as the dregs, that was actually a compliment. I have no idea how I’m going to suddenly turn them into producers.”

“I think you’re up to the task.” Howard Mellnick smiled. “And I can’t wait to hear all the gory details.” He flipped his yellow pad closed, signaling the end of their session. “Just remember that torturing Ross Morgan is only a perk—not your main goal.”

“Right,” Shelley said as she stood and prepared to leave. “I’ll try to keep that in mind.”

On Sunday afternoon Judy stood at the entrance to the Temple Kol Chaim social hall and surveyed the hum of activity inside. Today’s Bar Mitzvah Expo, which was to bar and bat mitzvah planning what a Bridal Fair was to weddings, was in full swing.

Scanning the crowd for her coordinator, Judy waited for the expected rush of adrenaline, but nothing happened. Which was very strange indeed.

She could still remember the excitement of her first expo four years ago, when she’d spent an entire afternoon visiting each vendor, nibbling catering samples, watching videos, and listening to demonstration CDs.

At home afterward she’d spent a euphoric afternoon poring over the brochures and promotional items. With wonder, she’d contemplated the caterers and event facilities, the photographers and videographers, the goody basket creators and personal shoppers, even the security companies specializing in hormonal thirteen-year-olds.

Entertainment options had ranged from a lone guitarist to the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra and included the ever-popular DJs, who came with emcees, light shows, and crates full of party favors, as well as the all-important crowd motivators.

It had all seemed so incredibly exciting.

You could have a video of your child’s life. Or photos of the guests applied to buttons they could wear home. Concession stands, celebrity look-alikes, jugglers, magicians—name it, and it could be ordered à la carte or as part of a package. The sky and the depth of your pockets were the only limits.

On that fateful day she’d understood that her son’s bar mitzvah was more than a ceremonial trip to adulthood. It was something she could throw herself into; something that required more than chauffeuring and cheerleading. It was her opportunity to make her mark.

Judy had read every word of every brochure, and then she’d hired the ridiculously expensive Mandy Mifkin. Together they’d come up with the Roman gladiator theme and turned Jason’s bar mitzvah into the gold standard against which all other such functions were measured—at least in the highly competitive suburb of Atlanta where she lived.

But today, Judy’s competitive juices refused to flow.

She was contemplating slipping out the way she’d come, when Mandy rushed up and enveloped her in a hug.

“It’s so crowded I didn’t see you standing here,” Mandy said. “Come.” She turned to lead the way back into the exhibit hall. “I want to show you the invitation I told you about.”

The crowd parted before them like the Red Sea. Mandy nodded regally as they passed through the throng of women, and Judy heard the awe in their voices; “togas,” they mouthed to each other. “A lion in a cage right next to the gift table.” Another nodded importantly. “I heard the rabbi wore a toga under his robes.”

The room was thick with their admiration and envy, but Judy felt no answering sense of pleasure or accomplishment. In fact she felt as if she were having an out-of-body experience—the kind those briefly dead people described in which they levitated up into the air and watched the hospital staff trying to revive them. Everything around her was muffled, once removed, but there was no beckoning ray of white light, only a ton of other women snapping up samples and exclaiming over chair covers. And all of them seemed to be moving and talking at warp speed, while she was stuck in slow motion.

Mandy led her to a brightly decorated table whose sign read Pinchas Paper Products. After the requisite air-kissing, Stacy Pinchas pulled out an oversized piece of card stock festooned in gold and silver foil and presented it to Judy.

“Don’t you just love the type style?” Mandy gushed. “And look how the silver stands out against the black and gold. It’s masculine, yet communicates the sports theme with real elegance.” She lowered her voice. “The sports theme’s been done to death, so doing something new with it is critical.”

“Hmmm?” Judy tried to focus, but she couldn’t seem to work up the energy.

“The sports thing,” Mandy repeated. “If you don’t do something different with it . . . well.” The coordinator looked her in the eye. “Then you really don’t need me.”

Judy considered the other woman. During the planning of Jason’s extravaganza, the slightest hint of losing Mandy would have triggered a full-blown panic attack. Today Judy felt only a bone-crushing weariness. And an increasingly urgent need to get out of this building. Now.

Judy looked at the invitation. Did she really care what color the foils were? Did she believe the invitation’s design would appreciably affect Sammy’s bar mitzvah experience?

“It looks fine,” Judy said. “I guess I’m just not in the mood for all this”—she motioned around the room—“right now.”

Mandy stiffened but quickly recovered. It appeared Judy was not going to be fired.

“We’ve already booked the important things. Why don’t I stay and pick up any samples I want you to see?” She gave Judy a parting hug and made a show of shooing her off. “You just call me when you’re ready to see them, and I’ll run them over.”

Outside, Judy drew in great gulps of fresh air. The day was bright and a slight spring breeze stirred the air, but she felt lost, unsure what to do next. Sliding into her BMW SUV, she started the car, then rooted around in her purse until she located her cell phone.

Craig picked up on the third ring. She could hear a baseball game on in the background; heard one of her sons shout in response to something that must have happened on-screen.

“Oh, hi,” he said. “Where are you?”

She used to feel a little bubble of pleasure when she heard her husband’s voice; now the little bubble was filled with annoyance.

“I told you I was going to the expo.”

“Oh, right.”

She could tell his attention was elsewhere, most likely on the game.

“When will you be home?” he asked.

“Soon.”

“Good.”

Silence.

Once they might have chatted easily for fifteen or twenty minutes; now they couldn’t fill five.

“I, uh, didn’t really have the energy for the expo. Mandy’s going to bring the samples later.”

“That’s good.”

She heard papers shuffle in the background. A mechanical voice told him he had mail.

“I think I’m going to drive over and see Daddy before I come home. I might pick up Chinese for dinner.”

“OK,” Craig said automatically. “Give him my best.”

Before she could respond she was listening to a dial tone and feeling annoyed all over again. Craig had been a rock during her father’s emergency surgery and the frightening days immediately afterward. But once her father was out of imminent danger, Craig had made it clear he expected her to move on. Only she couldn’t seem to get back to normal—not that normal had been feeling all that attractive lately.

On the way to her parents’ she tried a glass-is-half-full exercise. After all, her father was going to be fine; she had a marriage that her friends envied, two healthy sons, and an upcoming event that she could afford to celebrate in a way befitting their place in life. She had no reason to be dissatisfied, and even less to keep teetering on the edge of tears.

At her parents’ she fussed over her father then joined her mother, who was writing thank-you notes at the kitchen table.

“Betty Halpren finally switched florists, thank God. Did you see the flowers she had sent from Raphael?”

“Uh, no.” Judy’s visits to the hospital had been too fraught with anxiety to contemplate the relative merits of the floral arrangements filling her father’s room.

“The roses never even opened. And it had mums in it! I hate to think what Betty spent on that puny arrangement.”

Judy just nodded. “Do you feel OK about Daddy’s progress?”

“As OK as I can.” Her mother laid down her pen. “The doctor says as long as he rests and takes care of himself the prognosis is very good.”

She straightened the pile of note cards and her eyes got . . . dreamy?

“We’re going to stop putting things off for the future. In fact, your father and I are going back to Europe this year.”

Her mother’s voice sounded almost girlish. This was getting very weird indeed.

“We went to Paris on our honeymoon, you know.” Judy’s mother smiled. “And I’ve always wanted to go back. Harvey can be very romantic when he puts his mind to it.”

In thirty-nine years, Judy couldn’t remember more than a handful of compliments coming out of her mother’s mouth. It was always a complaint or a suggestion as to how things could be better. And here her mother was blushing over a trip to Europe with the man she’d been married to for forty years.

“Daddy? Romantic?” Part of her wanted to file this news in the “way more than she wanted to know” category. The other part was totally fascinated and dying to ask questions. Because right now, forty years sounded like a life sentence. Given how little she and Craig spoke to each other now, in twenty-five years they’d probably be communicating via sign language.

Her father was romantic and her mother, HER MOTHER, was blushing.

Which meant they probably still had sex. And
enjoyed
it.

Judy listened to the rest of her mother’s chatter with only half an ear, because she was completely stuck on the fact that her parents’ marriage sounded markedly better than hers.

Which made her own life even more pitiful than she had realized.

chapter
8

O
n Monday morning Shelley bounded out of bed and into the shower. Eager to get to the office to show Ross Morgan whom he was fooling with, she smoothed her hair into a French twist, selected a nubby turquoise suit, and stepped into matching mid-heeled pumps. After downing a low-carb breakfast bar, she drove the twenty-five minutes to the midtown warehouse, which had been so skillfully converted into the offices of Schwartz and Associates, in ten.

The receptionist’s mouth dropped open when Shelley stepped into the high-ceilinged lobby. She turned to look at the clock on the wall, looked down quickly at her watch, then back up at Shelley.

“Good morning, Sandra. Did you have a good weekend?”

“Yes,” the other woman managed. “It was, um, fine.” She held her wrist up, shook it, and tapped the watch face. “Aren’t you in a little early?”

Shelley glanced up at the clock. It read 8:55. “Doesn’t the day still start at nine o’clock?”

“Um, yes. Yes, it does.”

“Then I guess I’m right on time.” Shelley moved past reception and walked briskly down the hallway toward her office, her heels tapping on the scored and glazed concrete floors. As she passed the glass-fronted offices along the way, her coworkers looked up in surprise. Some hung up their phones, others shut their drawers or dropped their pens. As if unable to stop themselves, they left their offices and came out into the hall to silently watch her progress.

By the time Shelley reached her own door, a sizable crowd had formed. When she turned and looked back over her shoulder, a line of fascinated faces stared back.

“Good morning?” she said tentatively.

There was throat-clearing, looks of embarrassment, and finally, a collective sort of nod. One or two people lifted a hand in greeting.

“Yes,” Shelley said before stepping into her office. “It’s great to see you all, too.”

Despite an almost overwhelming need for caffeine, Shelley gave them a full fifteen minutes to disperse. Then she headed for the break room where, once again, conversation sputtered to a stop and eyes moved to the clock on the wall then back to her.

“It’s me,” she said. “And, yes, it’s nine-seventeen.” She watched the second hand on the clock go around. “Make that nine-eighteen. Does anyone want to make something of it?”