Momzillas (14 page)

Twenty-five

Grover is visiting a horse farm in Saskatchewan. The stallions have names like Thunder and TriggerHeel and Feathers. The little girl who is our guide rides the horses, washes them, and feeds them crisp apples. It is miles to another house, the fields are dewy and endless, with a sunset dappling the high breeze-blown grasses.

I am trapped in an urban jungle of cement and stacks of people in towers that scrape the sky and gut my confidence. Violet, who is such a contented child she would have a blast at Alcatraz, is absorbed in Grover's northern romp as I stare into space, summoned back to earth by the piercing birdlike ring of our corporate apartment's incredibly annoying phone.

“Hi, honey,” Josh said with a dark tone. Uh-oh. Just as I had feared the moment the nasal-voiced ticket saleswoman had said the words “final sale,” Josh told me apologetically that something had come up and our long-overdue date night was now canceled.

“What do you mean you have a work dinner? I've got Broadway show tickets!”

“Sweets, I can't help it. Parker and I need to go over everything and it could take a while.”

“But you just got home from a business trip! You've been working for ten days straight!”

Great. My romantic date night foiled. I had been so looking forward to a sexy New York night on the town. And with everyone away in the Hamptons for the last two weeks of summer, it would be a quiet winding down of sorts. The calm before the shit storm.

“Go without me, honey, ask Leigh.”

“She's in Brazil at surfing camp. No one's in town!” Ugh. I hung up so bummed. Amber was already booked and the tickets were paid for. Maybe I could sell one in front of the theater to a Kansas person? An hour of stressing later, the horrifying, ear-splitting phone chirped again.

“Hello?”

“Oh—it's me, Hannah, Tate Hayes. I'm certain you're busy, but you mentioned your husband works quite a bit these days, and I just was wondering on the off chance you're free tonight if you wanted to do something?”

“Actually, this works out perfectly.”

Twenty-six

“The moon is so beautiful, it looks like a picture,” said the actress on the shadowy stage.

“Why does it have to look like a picture?” said the man who came up behind her, caressing her body, her arms, her breasts.

He slowly undid the tie of her bikini, letting the top drop to the floor. The highly erotically charged scene had me shifting in my seat, subsumed in a tide of awky blushing.

When the curtain fell twenty minutes later after said couple perished tragically, the lights came on and I looked at Tate.

“Uplifting!” I said, sarcastically.

“I think we need to get a drink. Or how about a bite?”

“Oh, um…I would, except I have to probably get back and pay my sitter.”

“All right, I'll drop you home on my way.”

In the cab, he thanked me for the ticket and we confirmed plans to see another exhibit at the Guggenheim. It was nice to have someone to spend time with, immersed in an old interest. But somehow being near him made me a little nervous, given my former obsession. Somehow I thought maybe we should keep our hangouts art-based, like an echo of the classroom. But in the face of my anxiety, I reminded myself that he was married, too, so luckily I knew his intentions were chaste and I could exhale.

We pulled up to my apartment building and Tate paid the driver, getting out of the taxi with me.

“I feel like walking,” he said. “It's a lovely night. And the chill will be upon us before we know it.”

“I hope so,” I said. “This heat is killing me.”

“Soon enough, Hannah.” He reached for my hand, brought it to his face, and kissed it.

Whoa.

I thought I would keel over, I was so surprised. I mean, granted, it's a totally platonic thing, but…I couldn't see Josh kissing anyone's hand. It was as if his lips on my hand sent a bolt through that big vein that people commit suicide on and charged my chest with a happy nervous shock.

“Good night,” I said, turning to go in the building. I couldn't have turned away faster because I had to hide the fact that my cheeks, like an oiled stroke of a Degas tutu, were pink.

THANK GOODNESS FOR TECHNOLOGY! THE BETTER TO SPREAD GOSSIP WITH…

Instant Message from: BeeElliott

BeeElliott: YOU ON? YOU ARE GONNA DIE!

Maggs10021: Hi, am here, w'sup?

BeeElliott: Am FREAKING! R u sitting down?

Maggs10021: Of course. What, do you think I type standing up? Out with it!

BeeElliott: Hannah Allen is FULLY cheating on Josh!

Maggs10021: No way. I don't believe it.

BeeElliott: It's TRUE! I saw w/ my own eyes! Park said Josh is working 24/7 also and we came into the city to see West's allergist & I SAW HER w/ some hot guy and he kissed her and totally they are an item.

Maggs10021: Am in shock.

BeeElliott: I'm not. Nothing shocks me anymore. What a whore.

Twenty-seven

Tate had been right—August whizzed by and September was upon us. Labor Day weekend was here and not a soul was in the neighb. Josh adorably made me breakfast in bed and we had a late cuddle with Violet Saturday morning, then he announced he had to go to work because there was no Labor Day in Europe and that he had to crunch some serious numbers for Count von Hapsenfürer. I was so pissed and lashed out at poor Josh, but there was really nothing he could do.

It was amazing how different the empty weekend was from insane Monday. Labor Day was streams upon streams of deluxe SUVs parading back in from Cape Cod and the Islands, the Hamptons, and Connecticut. The Park Avenue that had been dead silent just twenty-four hours ago was now jammed with cars unloading piles upon piles of monogrammed T. Anthony luggage and preppy totes from the Monogram Shop. Moms were in a panic unloading all the children and loot, and tanned dads helped cattle-prod the kids off the sidewalks into their grand buildings.

My heart was racing all day Labor Day because I knew what the next morning held: the infamous nursery school speed dial. I had made my list of schools—Carnegie Nursery School was obviously my first choice since everyone said it was the “best” (one guy literally gave a million-dollar donation from his company to get his kid in) but I was instructed I needed backups so I also was ready to get my fingers to dial the Fifth Avenue School (which was in a church basement), the London School (a British school with adorable uniforms so I wouldn't have to stress about how to dress Violet every day), and the Temple School, where Josh had gone. Bee had pronounced the Temple School “very B” and said it was a miracle Josh had gotten into Collegiate from there. Lila had left three messages on her way back from England to remind me to dial the next morning. As if I could forget—it was all anyone wanted to talk about.

Josh thought the whole thing was insane and ridiculous.

“Sweetie, she's
two.
I mean,
who cares
?”

“I do! Plus it's your friends that say you need a backup.”

“But I'm a legacy at the Temple School!”

“I can't believe you moved me to a place where fucking two-year-olds need backup schools to play with blocks and it's a huge leg up to have a
legacy
!”

I started to get tears in my eyes.

“Okay, Hannah, you're being nuts. Why are you crying?”

“Because you worked all day! Because I'm always alone! Because I hate these bitchy women who make me feel like loving Violet isn't enough! Because they all compete over everything and because I am sick of doing nothing but obsess about where my life should be.”

Josh came over to hug me but I knew he thought I was going off the deep end. Then, as I was wiping my eyes, he dropped the doozy.

“Well, sweetie, I have to go to the office very early tomorrow, so we should go to bed.”

Silence.

“
What?
I told you, tomorrow is the day we call the schools!”

“That's tomorrow? God, this process is so nuts. Back when I was applying, my mom just dropped by and they handed you the application.”

“But that's not how they do it now!” I screamed. “
I told you
this!”

“Sweetie, I am so sorry, I don't know what to tell you. I have a new job and I can't cut corners. Obviously I want to help you, but my hands are tied. I have a huge conference call with von Hapsenfürer and our Japanese office, and there're like eight guys on the call.”

“Great. So I get to do this
alone
. She'll just end up in that day care where they beat up that little girl last year.”

“Don't be such a drama queen.”

“I don't think you understand that
I am alone all the time
! With your mother! With Bee and her friends and I'm
miserable
like this! I don't care about money.”

“C'mon, Han, I'm sorry, I'm—”

“
Doing it for us
, yeah yeah. Quite frankly I'd rather have you be a public school teacher and at least have you home at five o'clock! I'm alone
all the time
! I'm the one doing everything with Violet while you're MIA at work! You didn't even know that Snuffleupagus wasn't invisible anymore until last week! You're never fucking here!”

“And who do you think would pay for these schools we're applying to if I was sitting at home with you?”

“What, are you implying that because I don't make any money I have to do everything else?”

“No—I'm just saying—”

“Forget it. I'm exhausted.” Nice. I turned off my light and rolled over. This is so not where I pictured myself. Let's face it, Josh's work is his life and I had to just think of myself as a single mother and then, when he was actually with us, it would be a bonus. Josh tried to rub my back, but I didn't respond, I just closed my eyes and slowly fell asleep.

Twenty-eight

I woke up as Josh stepped out of the shower with my heart immediately pounding from the moment I was conscious. I couldn't believe I actually had to win a radio call-in contest to just get an application for Violet's schools. Josh kissed me good-bye at seven thirty, and apologized profusely for our spat the night before and for having to leave me for the phone-fest. I had thirty minutes of trying to suppress a heart attack while feeding Violet her Cheerios and banana. I am the worst mother—I remembered as I was pouring from the big yellow box that Bee said West has farm-fresh eggs and organic bacon every morning. As did Lara's kid. “Brain food,” they called it. Ugh. But they had help to clean the frying pan, utensils, and bowl covered in eggy film afterward. If that was brain food, what was cereal every day, thigh food?

I called Leigh to pick a place for dinner that night—hopefully Josh could meet us but naturally he “couldn't make any promises.” I was starting to feel more and more stood up by my own husband. The phone rang and I thought it would be Josh to wish me luck. It was Lila.

“Hannah, dear, are your dialing fingers ready?”

I said yes and was hoping that she would step in to help me call, but she quickly mentioned she had a charity board meeting at the Waldorf for PIMP—People In Manhattan against Pimples, a not-for-profit outfit dedicated to the eradication of acne. She hung up, wishing me luck.

Soon enough the dialing hour was upon us. I set up Violet in her room with tons of toys and books and I sat beside her pretending to play but really having a nervous breakdown, my fingers shaking as I dialed the first number. Busy signal. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. What was this, the 1970s? I hadn't heard a busy signal in literally twenty-five years! I kept hitting redial. Again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again…My pulse quickened even more. Fucking pick up,
please
!

Then I decided that maybe instead of hitting redial, actually dialing the numbers each time might make a difference. Nope. Then I decided to switch numbers for a different school.
Nada
, same shizzle. Panic ensued. Then I wondered: Do I try once for each school in a round robin or just pound away at one school until I get through? I decided the former, just because it seemed like there was more randomness to it that way. I kept dialing. Busy busy busy busy busy, busy, busy, busy,
busy
.
Arghhhhhh!
I had heard the expression “tearing one's hair out” all my life but never knew the meaning until the seven-hundredth busy signal and I swear I started grabbing the roots of my hair, ready to rip it all out, Sinéad-style.

I was starting to picture the
New York Post
headline “Mother Drops Dead from Dial-an-App” with a photo of me zipped in a body bag because I passed out from stress. I was literally panting when I heard “Hello, Carnegie Nursery School?”

“Hello?! Yes, hi! hi! Yay!”
Gee, great opener, Hannah. Real cool.

“Hello?”

“Hi! Yes, hello, um, this is Hannah Allen calling. Um, I wanted to get an application for my daughter Violet?” Heart racing racing racing.

“All righty, this is Mrs. Kincaid, director of admissions. I can help you with that. Let me just start a file for Miss Violet.”

“Okay…” I waited as I heard shuffling papers and a trillion phone lines ringing in the background.

“Full name?”

“Violet Grace Allen.”

“Age as of September of next year?”

Shit, my math was failing me, shit! “Um…um three years and three and a half months?”

“Husband's profession?”

Huh? To, like, make sure we can cough it up?

“Hedge fund. I mean…uh, banker?”

“University you attended?”

“Berkeley.”

“Mmm-hmm. And university your husband attended?”

“Stanford.”

“All right, Mrs. Allen, we shall send that off this week.”

Yippee!

Okay. Next school. Now maybe I'd be on a roll! Maybe now I'll get 'em all!

Wrong. Ninety-seven minutes later I finally got through to the London School. A woman in a clipped British accent took the same information and said she would send the application “straightaway.”

Next I tried the Temple School. After one time dialing the number, I heard…ringing! Yaaaaaaay! Hooray! Angels on high! At this point the sound of a phone's ring was like Mozart's trumpets or Beethoven's
Ode to Joy
.

“Good morning. You have reached the Temple School. All requests for applications have been filled and because of a high number of siblings this year we are unable to send out any more applications. We wish you the best of luck in your nursery school process.”

Click.
Dial tone, which was like the sound of glass breaking. Fuck fucking fuck! They were sold out? And that was supposed to be our school with a connection, our “in.” Dammit. I took a deep breath, not having time to waste, and tried Fifth Avenue School, which takes everyone's names and then draws out four hundred from a hat to receive an application. Why they do this I do not know, considering the calling in itself is a lottery. But hey, why not torture people some more, for fun? Their recording said we'd be notified via mail if we “won” the chance to apply. Night. Mare.

I then quickly whipped out my school guide to add one more to the pot and dialed the Browne-Madison School, which I'd heard a couple good things about. After only about eleven tries, Missy Baumgarten, the school registrar, answered and created a file for Violet.

“We will contact you in writing with your interview time,” she said. “Do not call the school. We'll contact you.” Same deal as Fifth Avenue School as per their Web site—don't call us, we'll call you.

“Okay—”
Click
.

Exhausted, demoralized, and convinced my daughter would be mauled in day care, I took Violet out for some air. We walked up a now bustling Madison Avenue, packed with mommies lunching in the still al fresco sidewalk cafés, and others bolting into stores stocked with new fall merch like Jimmy Choo, Barneys, and Hermès.

I walked by Ralph Lauren's children's shop on Madison, which was so glutted with strollers that there was a line to get in. Six pretty Orthodox Jewish women with wigs were carrying seven bags each on their stroller hooks, from Bonpoint, Polo, and Spring Flower. I walked up past Calypso and Flora and Henri—both mobbed—and then farther up to “Grandmother's Row” on upper Madison—Marie Chantal, Petit Bateau, Magic Windows, and the other Bonpoint (which Bee said has less 'tude). All of them had beautiful dresses in the window for fall already, even though according to the lower left-hand corner of NY1 newschannel it was still 81 degrees out. And while I must admit I did thirst for many of the incredible gorge duds for Violet, I didn't feel like I needed to wait in line, so we went to the park and I let Violet run rampant while I watched from the bench, finally able to exhale.