Momzillas (21 page)

Forty-three

Still oddly groggy from my unsettling X-rated dream, I took Violet to scope our would-be apartment and take some measurements. Troy had told us the board would be convening that very week and then not again for two months, so they agreed to meet us based on our financial package, even though our social letters weren't in. A response would be forthcoming, pending our complete file. I was relieved to be a step closer to turning the key on a real home, but it still seemed a remote possibility. Nevertheless, I already felt a connection to the building. The doorman, Tony, was so nice, and the place seemed warm and homey. The super was in the lobby and told me Tony had just stepped out, but he managed to find the key in a lockbox in the lobby, and since we'd plonked down 10 percent already and the family had cleared out of there for Europe a week before, I felt entitled to wander and imagine our roots there and life beyond a tragic white-box corporate apartment. The super patted Violet's head and said, “This is going to be your new home!” I just prayed that was true—that we would survive the board's grilling.

When we got upstairs I was fumbling with a key ring that had ten keys on it. As I opened the door, I heard a laugh and was surprised to see Troy in the living room. Could he still be showing the place? I was stunned. Then I saw his “client” was none other than Bee.

“Oh, hi…” I said, coolly. What the
eff
were they doing here? I knew she was not a threat to buy it out from under us because she would only leave her palatial spread for something grander, and this joint was half the size. Violet hopped out of the stroller and ran around them as I stood still.

“Hannah, hi,” Troy said nervously, with his British accent extra clipped. “I just wanted to show Bee your apartment, since I had the key…”

“Uh-huh.”

“It's really nice,” said Bee. “I didn't know the apartments in here were so spacious. I mean, it's such a random building.”

I wasn't quite sure what
random
meant but it didn't sound good. “Well, I just needed to get some measurements…” I said, and walked by them to the bedroom.

“Okeydokey then, Hannah, I'll call you before your board meeting in a couple days,” said Troy as the two of them walked out and closed the door behind them. Wow. I did not appreciate my broker sneaking in Bee. I know there was no lawyer or doctor-patient privilege but it somehow felt creepy and un-kosher to me. She had probably begged him so she could scope out the digs—I knew she was obsessed with how people lived since she always seemed to be making editorial comments about people's apartments, taste, bank accounts, etc. Hmph.

Troy and I never did connect before the board meeting. We traded calls and I grew more and more frantic, literally asking him on his voice mail to leave me any tips I should know. I still was bitter that he'd showed Bee our apartment; the more I thought about it, the weirder it seemed, and I was pissed he didn't seem to be making an effort to reach me.

I had read Josh the riot act about not being late for our interview, and he thankfully showed up on time, kissing me on the cheek as we entered the lobby with twenty seconds to spare.

Maggie had told me the interview was really more of a welcome-to-the-building cocktail party. That simply was not the case.

We walked in to find five men, all in pressed suits. All were bankers. Sorry, one was a real-estate lawyer: the host and chairman of the board, who had basically told his wife to skedaddle so he could have the meeting in their living room, which was all white. I mean everything. I thought I was either in an Ian Schrager hotel or a mental institution. I'd worn my cool knee-high leather boots (which Leigh called my “Fuck You Boots”) 'cause they were so badass. Plus, I was a full four inches taller and I felt very confident and put together compared with my usual sweatpants/mom-bun self. Not so fast, Hannah.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Allen,” the host, Wynn Sutherland, said, looking me over. “Can you both please take off your boots? This is a shoe-free household.”

I took a deep breath and exhaled my rage. Josh clearly sensed this and smiled.

“I hope you don't have a run in your stocking,” joked another suit. And just as the words came out of his Locust Valley lockjaw, I remembered. I realized that, yes, in fact I did have a fucking inch-long run. Right down the front of my calf. I'd kept a stash of messed up Pat Benatar–esque pantyhose to wear specifically with pants and these boots. Naturally I didn't think I would be asked to de-shoe, as this is not Osaka.

I calmly unzipped my boots, revealing the gaping punk-rock run, and quietly sat down. Josh smiled; I thought he would lose it. I flared my nostrils.

The five board members reclined on an overstuffed white couch and two flanking white armchairs. We were offered a bench. Yes, a hemorrhoid-inducing modern, cushionless wooden bench. I don't care what fancy designer fashioned it, the thing was painful.

“So,” Wynn began, sipping his seltzer (we weren't offered any). “Hannah, you're just a mom, right?”

Just a mom. Words of death. “Yes, well, I have a deg—”

“Uh-huh. And Josh, you're down at Jupiter Capital?”

The next forty-five minutes involved Josh talking and me nodding like the good wife. And trying to cover up the flesh showing through my ripped tights. I felt invisible. Fuck these people. Did I even want to be in a building with them anyway? I'd never seen anyone before when I'd visited. I guess even though they're on top of one another, neighbors don't really hang. In fact, they don't even seem to see each other in the elevator.

Finally, as everything wound down to a close, one of the interviewers asked about Violet. Where did she go to school? When Josh mentioned Milford Prescott, well, he gushed.

“Our little Wynn the fourth—Quattro we call him—just loved it there. Great place.” He winked at me. Was that a sign that we were in the building? I was starting to see how all these parents use these schools as a club of sorts to seal people in as their “kind.”

Out on the street, Josh razzed me, laughing about my tights.

“I'm sorry, but this isn't fucking Japan!” I ranted as he giggled, trying to console me.

“Sweets, it wasn't a big deal.”

“Yes it was! I studied art history. And taking one's shoes off is a sign of humility. I was humiliated!”

“Oh please, can it with the iconography,” he teased, hugging me.

“I'm serious! Don't laugh! It was all about you in there. I was frigging cellophane. You heard him, ‘just' a mom.”

“Don't let this get to you. It's just part of the game to get the apartment we love.”

“There's a game here for everything, isn't there?”

AND SO MUCH FOR BOARD CONFIDENTIALITY…

Instant Message from: BeeElliott

BeeElliott: So I heard you wrote a board letter for Hannah and Josh Allen?

Maggs10021: Yes!

BeeElliott: How did that happen? God she's so aggro to ask you!

Maggs10021: I didn't mind, no trouble at all—

BeeElliott: That building is nice but no great shakes.

Maggs10021: I like it! Clara Peacock lived there before they moved to Greenwich.

BeeElliott: Whatever. Poor Josh. He's buying her this pad and doesn't even know she's fully cheating.

Maggs10021: Are you sure? I can't see that.

BeeElliott: I'm going to tell Park about when I saw her with that guy. I hadn't told him. But the more I think about it, the more I think Josh should know.

Maggs10021: Bee, don't do it—it's none of your biz.

BeeElliott: Josh is our friend. What if she gives him some disease? It's his best friend, Parker needs to know.

Forty-four

Once again, at the worst time ever, Lila popped by to see Violet, toting a bag with an impossibly impractical smocked silk dress for her to wear.

“Hello,” she said, waltzing by me, surveying the room, which, naturally as it was first thing in the morning, looked not unlike Afghanistan.

“Lila!” Violet said, running to give her a hug. Her fingers still sticky with oatmeal, her embrace made her grandmother practically recoil in horror, lest her linen suit be tarnished with stray oats.

“Can I get you anything to drink?” I offered.

“Some San Pellegrino would be lovely,” she said.

Um…no Pellegrino. How about…tap water or tap water? “Oh, we just ran out,” I lied. “We have some flat water? Or juice? We have apple and orange—”

“Juice? Heavens no, thank you. That is simply loaded with sugar! Please tell me you don't give Violet that garbage. It's full of high-fructose corn syrup. Bee said when they give out the apple juice during snack time at Carnegie she has the teacher get Weston's thermos of ice water.
Much
healthier.”

Rage was boiling up inside my veins. “You know, Lila,” I said, with my utmost restraint. “A little juice never killed anyone. I practically chugged Red Cheek as a child and I'm fine.”

She sneered, looking me over, saying nothing. And in that moment, I knew. I knew she thought I was a big fat juice-guzzling bovine unworthy of Josh, unworthy of this neighborhood.

“On another topic,” she said, abruptly switching gears. “I saw Bee and her mother yesterday and she mentioned that these days it is absolutely necessary to write a first-choice letter.”

“For the schools, you mean?”

“Yes. You must write Carnegie and let them know at once that it is without a doubt your first choice.”

“But…I don't know if it is—”

“Listen,
Hannah
,” she said, as if the letters of my name spelled D-O-O-D-Y. “You can't waste time on this. We are talking about Violet's education and this process is not to be taken lightly!”

“I'm not taking it lightly! I'm just not sure it's our first choice. It's something for me to discuss with Josh when he gets back.”

Now she was furious. “The women are customarily in charge of such things. It is to be written on your stationery, which I am happy to order for you since I recall your foldover monogrammed cards to be of flimsy cardstock. It must be engraved, a nice card. I'll take care of it.”

I couldn't believe this bitch. Marching into my house, telling me I had crappyass grade-D paper, taste, body weight, and mothering skills.

“Lila,” I said, near the point of literally bludgeoning her. “I'm so sorry but Violet and I have to go, we have class and can discuss this later.”

“Yes, we will,” she said, rising to leave. “When Josh has some free time this weekend, I think we should all sit down.”

Forty-five

The next day was a frenzy of class uptown at Milford Prescott, dry-cleaning, and grocery shopping—Violet loved the Food Emporium because they had teeny tiny shopping carts with flags that said “Customer in Training.” The good news was, she was elated. The bad news was, it took two hours to get out of there since she was charging down the aisles, almost steam-rollering over old ladies and nannies with two-page shopping lists. We got home and I started unpacking the food, deciding what to cook. I hadn't heard from Josh all afternoon. I had left him two messages and was making a nice dinner—well, to the best of my abilities—and was dialing his cell when I heard him come in. It was eight o'clock, which was very early for Josh to come home, and I was thrilled.

“Joshie, is that you?” I called. “Miracle!”

I ran up to him and his face was wet from the rain outside.

“Hi sweets! This is so great you're home!” I said, going to give him a hug. But just as I was leaning in, I noticed his face was stone-still and cold. He put his arm out to stop me from embracing him.

“Don't.”

“What's wrong?”

He inhaled sharply, looking very angry. I started to worry something bad had happened at work. But I had no idea what was about to go down.

“Hannah,” he started. “I know about you and Tate Hayes.”

“What about him?”

“That you're…seeing each other.”

What?
My blood froze in every artery.

“That's crazy, we're not ha—”

“Don't say that. Hannah, I
know
. Don't you understand? I know for a fact.”

“Well, you're wrong! Sweetie, I
swear
I didn't touch him—”

“First you're going to museums, then you're so close he's suddenly writing a board letter, then I find out you see him outside of museums, you kiss—”

“
Kiss?
Josh, it never happened! I mean, yes, we've been spending time together but it's chaste—what was I supposed to do? I move here because of you and you work 'til midnight! I'm alone all the time.”

“So you fuck your old professor?” He looked as if he might cry.

“I didn't!” I now had full tears pouring down my face because I felt so horribly guilty about my dream.

“You were my best friend,” he said, shaking his head. “We used to be like a team, and over the last few months, you've…pulled away. Don't deny it, Hannah. We speak less and less during the day—”

“Because you're in meetings! I can never get you on the phone!”

“And now I know you are spending time with this guy you told me you used to idolize. Turn the tables, Hannah! How would you like it if I were doing that? While you were working sixteen-hour days?”

I stood shaking, my world caving in. I was traumatized on so many levels but my core, my rock, was always Josh and to see that cracking was too much to bear.

“I have to go to Switzerland tonight, I have to pack. They needed someone to go and I volunteered since I can't even look at you right now.”

“What?
Tonight?
”

“I'm on the eleven fifty-five
P.M.
flight.”

“You can't leave now. We need to talk about this. Sweetie, you are my life! I swear nothing ever happened with Tate!”

“Right, it's
Tate
now. I can't talk to you right now, I'm beyond exhausted.”

“Sweetie.” I reached out, sobbing.

“I'll be back in two days and we can discuss it then.”

I was now seriously bawling, crying as I followed him around begging him not to go.

In a whirl of zipping bags and buttoned coat, my husband kissed Violet and walked to the door.

“Josh, I love you” was all my sobbing, fatigued, eyebagged self could muster.

He exhaled, his face weary with sadness. “I love you, too,” he said. As the elevator doors closed, we shared a look into each other's eyes but it was weighty with regret and fear and doubt. I doubted he believed me. I doubted my own status as a good wife. I doubted I could ever live without Josh.