Mine Are Spectacular! (25 page)

Kate gets to hear about the whole ordeal a couple of days later. She's relieved that Dylan's okay but gives me a gentle reminder that I'm going to have to face it—children grow and life changes.

“I'm not that good with change,” I tell her.

“I've noticed,” she says.

“By the way, how are the changes going in your life?” I ask.

“Horrible,” says Kate. “A major trauma. Mr. Rich is behaving badly.”

“Mr. Rich? Is that what you call Owen now?”

“Not to his face.” Kate laughs. “But in this case, Mr. Rich is Owen's dog. You wouldn't think something so small could cause so much trouble, but he's peeing all over and tearing up the furniture. He doesn't seem to be adapting well to the new living situation. I guess being a dog of divorce is never easy.”

“What are you going to do?”

“We're looking for a therapist,” Kate says.

A therapist? I guess once people are putting their dogs on Atkins, it's not such a reach to put them on an analyst's couch. “I'd recommend family counseling,” I offer. “Or maybe group therapy. You, Owen, the dog and that Russian gymnast he wants for a threesome.”

“Forget about that,” Kate says quickly. “Owen said if I was upset, we could drop the whole thing. So we're back to just the two of us.”

For now. Every time Owen does something wrong, Kate seems willing to give him a pass. But I have a feeling that problems like Florida State coeds and swinging Svetlanas don't go away. Or maybe they do and Owen just brings in other girls to replace them.

But at least Kate and Owen have been honest with each other about their current trauma—Mr. Rich. Nothing as simple for them as putting a dog gate at the bottom of the stairs.

“Owen's insisting on a Jungian therapist,” Kate tells me. “He's opposed to a behaviorist who'll just change the dog's actions without dealing with the underlying psychological issues.”

“Talk therapy for a dog?” I ask. “Why don't you just slip some Prozac into his kibble and pretend it's a treat?”

“Outrageous. Lie to your dog once and he'll never trust you again,” Kate says with mock righteousness.

“Then tell him the truth and let him know he has a problem,” I suggest.

Kate nixes the idea, pointing out that Mr. Rich deserves professional help. And though she hasn't yet found a mutt miracle worker with a PhD, she has something else in mind. A doggy day spa, offering full services.

“Is Bradford's dog free this afternoon?” Kate asks hopefully. “I think Mr. Rich would appreciate going with a friend.”

“I'll check Pal's schedule,” I tell Kate, who's assuming that while Pal might be occupied with his busy social life, I of course am available.

And I am. So two hours later, Bradford's well-behaved black lab is sitting at my feet on the corner of 16th Street and Ninth Avenue when Kate and Owen's neurotic cockapoo comes running up. The frenetic white ball of fluff is pulling hard against his Louis Vuitton leash and tugging in so many different directions that for once Kate can't keep her stilettos planted firmly on the ground. Of course Owen has a cockapoo—the cross between a cocker spaniel and poodle that's the latest chi-chi breed. What's Owen going to do next year when a new designer dog comes along? Trade in Mr. Rich for a newer model?

We head into the pale pink lobby of the French-sounding doggy day spa, Le Beastro. We're given the day's menu and I study it, but Kate's already preregistered Mr. Rich for a massage and a late afternoon hot oil bath.

“You might consider doggie liposuction for Pal. I hear they're experts at it here,” Kate says, running her fingers over what I consider his beautiful shiny flank. He's supposed to have that little bulge, isn't he?

“He just needs a haircut. Besides, nobody in my family is having lipo before I do,” I deadpan.

I look around the multifloored facility and realize we're the only dog owners here. All the others have dropped their pets and gone off to work—presumably so they can earn enough money to pay for their dog's lifestyle. But they're missing so much. We walk down a corridor past the Doggie Hall of Fame, featuring pictures of Lassie, Rin Tin Tin, Toto, and Beethoven—the movie-star Great Dane, not the composer.

“Mr. Rich, with a little effort, you can be on that wall, too,” Kate says, bending down and trying to direct his gaze to the inspirational portraits.

But instead of striving to achieve the greatness of Huckleberry Hound, the crazy cockapoo jumps up onto a low-lying table and pees on an orchid plant.

“No, no, no,” Kate says, grabbing him. “You'll get us thrown out of here.” Turning to me, she says, “We'd better get him to the swimming pool.”

I hope the dogs shower first.

I pick up a few doggie breath mints that have been carefully laid out in a silver bowl and feed them to Pal. Maybe he'll meet a female pooch and want to make a good impression. I reluctantly skip the perfume atomizer, figuring that not every lab alive loves Chanel No.5.

At the Olympic-size pool, a team of shapely swim instructors who look like they wandered off the set of
Baywatch
take Pal and Mr. Rich.

“First a little test to see if they can go into the deep end,” explains one, swatting down Mr. Rich, who has the edge of the instructor's tight red Speedo clamped between his teeth. “Then we'll assign them to the proper class.”

Kate and I take seats in the bleachers, and I watch proudly as Pal shows off his proficient doggie paddle. But I'm embarrassed when he gets put in the beginners' class because Bradford and I never helped him master the backstroke.

When the classes get underway, Kate spends a few minutes worrying about Mr. Rich, who's been outfitted with two bright orange water wings on his front paws. From the way he's flailing around the shallow end, it looks like he could use them on his back ones, too. But then Kate decides he's in good hands and she can spend some time worrying about me.

“Have you used your wok yet?” she asks, checking her manicure, which has somehow survived the leash lashing from the daft dog.

“Don't be nasty,” I say. “Any man can send you diamonds. It takes real effort to find something as original as a wok.”

“Especially hard to find a wok in Hong Kong. Probably took Bradford—well, minutes to come up with one,” Kate teases, but then glimpsing my grim expression, she pats my knee. “Seriously, I think it was very cute and sweet of him.”

“Do you really?”

“I do,” Kate says, playing with the diamond bracelet on her wrist. I'm not going to ask her where she got it, because I'm pretty sure I know. “I've always liked Bradford. He's smart. He adores you. You have great sex.”

“How do you know that?” I ask.

“You've told me enough times,” Kate says, poking around in her purse. “Here. A little something for when he gets home.”

She hands over a clear plastic lipstick container that says Lip Venom on it.

“Venom,” I say, studying the name. “Interesting idea. Kiss and kill?”

Kate laughs. “It's for lip fullness. Increases the plumpness by one point seven millimeters over twenty-eight days.”

“I don't usually look for things that increase my plumpness,” I remind her.

“But this one's special,” says Kate. “Gloss it on and it feels like you've been stung by a thousand bees.”

“And how long did scientists work to create this?” I ask, holding the tube as far away from me as possible.

“Probably decades in the making,” she says. “It's a real breakthrough. Makes the blood rush to the surface of your lips so they feel all hot and tingly. The best part is that it hurts. That way you know it's working.”

I usually know my lipstick's working by looking in the mirror. And fifteen dollars to buy a vial of pain? Just add it to all the plucking, pulling, piercing, and plastic surgery women put up with for beauty. But this one apparently has a secret bonus.

“Owen loves it, too,” Kate confides. “Drives him wild when I kiss him with my hot lips. You have to try it with Bradford when he gets back.”

“I don't know what's going to happen when Bradford gets back,” I tell her, putting down the tube.

Kate eyes it, then rubs my arm sympathetically. “You have to stop worrying,” Kate tells me.

“I'm trying,” I say. “And you know what? I've actually been feeling better lately. I'm not as scared about what might happen anymore. Bradford went to Hong Kong, and I didn't fall to pieces. Maybe James's being back has been a help. I suddenly realize there are options in my life.”

Kate looks at me worriedly. “Is James an option?”

“James is back and so some of that old pain is gone,” I say slowly. “And I realize the future can be whatever I want. Who would have thought that I'd have a whole new career in TV at forty-one?”

“Aren't we thirty-eight?” Kate asks.

I smile. “You may need to be thirty-eight. But I'm happy with what I am. So many things seem possible now. You know what? Getting older and smarter and more confident isn't that bad.”

“I like the way that sounds,” Kate says, nodding.

“I'm feeling pretty good,” I admit. Without thinking, I squirt a dab of the Lip Venom onto my pinkie and swipe it across my mouth. Within seconds, my lips are burning, my eyes are tearing, and I feel like my face is on fire.

“Oh my god, this hurts!” I say, letting out a yelp and frantically searching for a tissue. There are lots of beauty options out there as you get older, too. But you have to be careful about your choices. This is one I wish I hadn't picked. Next time I'm sticking with my own Clinique lip gloss.

 

Well after midnight, the newly primped and pampered Pal pushes open my bedroom door and places his front paw on the edge of my mattress. Usually he just barks when he wants something, but this is a very Lassie-like move, so I think the day at the spa has been good for him.

“What's up, Pal?” I ask.

Great, now I'm talking to the dog. He curls up on the floor next to the bed and stares at me with his big brown eyes. But I don't care how cute he is, he's not spending the night. A rule I've tried to enforce with all males who pass through my life.

“Come on, Pal,” I say, leading him back downstairs to the kitchen, where he has his very own monogrammed L.L. Bean bed. And maybe Pal did have an ulterior motive in coming to fetch me because I smell something burning. I go over to the Viking stove, where a pot of milk is scorching on a high flame. I quickly turn it off. Then looking around the dark room I notice Skylar huddled on the windowseat in the breakfast nook. She has a chenille throw pulled around her, and she looks miserable.

“What's going on?”

“I couldn't sleep,” Skylar says. “I wanted some hot chocolate, but I wasn't sure how to make it.”

“Let me do it for you,” I say, pulling a new pot out of the cabinet and going to the refrigerator for some soy milk. The only kind, I've learned, that Skylar will drink.

“Don't bother,” she says, squirming around on her perch. “I don't care about the cocoa anymore. I don't care about anything. Life sucks.”

I think about going over to her, but decide to stay at the stove and give her a little space. I stir the milk, keeping my back to her, and cautiously ask, “Anything particular that sucks?”

“School. Boys. Friends,” Skylar ticks off, hitting the big ones immediately. And then because she's fourteen and everything seems like the end of the world, she adds, “I gained two pounds. I got my period during gym. My math test was hard and geometry is just the dumbest thing ever. And I spilled ketchup on my Dolce & Gabbana skirt and it will never come out. Never.”

I mix a little bit of sugar into the Droste cocoa, put in a dab of vanilla, my secret ingredient, and pour the mixture into two mugs. I bring one over to Skylar.

“Yup, that qualifies as a lousy day,” I say.

“You're not supposed to say that,” Skylar says, taking the mug and blowing on the top. “You're a grown-up. You're supposed to tell me that everything will be okay.”

“It probably will,” I say. “But it never feels that way when you're in the middle of it.”

“How would you know? Your life is perfect.”

“My life is pretty good, and so is yours. Some things make me happy and some things don't.”

“Now you do sound like a stupid adult,” Skylar says. “You have no idea what it's like to be fourteen. And don't tell me you were once my age, because everything's different now. Nothing like a million years ago when you were in high school.”

“More like a million and a half years ago,” I say.

“Right. And in those days, if somebody had a party, she probably had to invite the whole class, right? So nobody was left out.”

I flash on all the nights I stayed home watching reruns of
The Love Boat
while everybody else was at parties, but I don't mention it, because that's not really what Skylar cares about.

“Who didn't invite you?” I ask.

“A girl at school. She's having a party Saturday night in the city with a DJ and everything. I asked her why I couldn't come, and she just walked away. I'm the only one in the whole school not going.”

I'm betting that's an exaggeration, but Skylar doesn't need to be challenged on details. Not when she's feeling like her entire universe is falling apart.

“Maybe she's jealous of you because you're so pretty,” I venture. “She doesn't want the competition.”

“No, she just hates me. Everybody hates me. The whole world hates me.”

I could commission a Gallup poll right now to prove how many people love her, but it wouldn't matter. Skylar still wouldn't be convinced. So I offer something better.

“You can't go to the party anyway,” I tell her, sipping a bit of my own hot chocolate. “You have something more important to do on Saturday night.”