Monarch Beach (25 page)

But I had nursed a secret crush on Chase Matheson for the last six months and I thought this was my opportunity. In the final weeks of school he showed an interest in me—he’d stop by my locker between classes, drop by my lunch table, walk with me to history. If I could get him alone for a few minutes, offer to show him the indoor pool or the fitness room, he might kiss me.

He gave me a bunch of flowers when he arrived. I went to the kitchen to put them in water, blushing that he was so thoughtful. When I returned to the foyer he had disappeared. I chatted with the other kids, the whole time wondering where he had gone. He finally reappeared through the doors to the garden, followed by Angie Bartholomew. Angie was a glamorous drama type; long red hair, green eyes smudged with black eye shadow, breasts too big for her body. When she had arrived at the party she was wearing a green shirt that buttoned up the front. Now, trailing behind Chase, it was buttoned up the back. I looked at her, looked at Chase, and ran up to my room. My mother found me crying on my princess bed, and made me go down and say good-bye to my guests.

I pulled myself out of the chair and headed for the elevator. I took off my butterfly earrings and put them in my purse. It was time to face my mother.

*   *   *

My mother sat on the love seat, flipping through
Architectural Digest
.

“Max said you ran off before dinner.” She snapped the magazine shut.

“I did,” I mumbled.

“He was very upset. He said he was playing Frisbee with Andre and you just disappeared. What’s going on?” She wore a pink-and-white Burberry robe and satin Gucci slippers. Her skin without any makeup was smooth, and her hair fell naturally around her shoulders. I felt like Shrek having an interview with the queen.

“Andre started going on about how much he wanted me back. He’d never cheat again, he couldn’t live without me.”

“And?” She sat next to me on the sofa.

“I almost believed him. He’s so gorgeous and he’s my husband. I thought we could try again.”

“You could,” she said. “Max would be pleased.”

“But then I found a text on his phone from a girl saying she was keeping his bed warm.” I tried to be a grown-up and not cry like when Chase went off with Angie Bartholomew.

“Oh, honey. You don’t need him. You can do so much better.” She hugged me.

“But I can’t do better at all.”

“You’ve only been separated a few months and you’re already dating,” she said.

“Not anymore.” I shook my head.

“Did something happen with Edward?”

I opened my purse, pulled out the butterfly earrings, and the whole story came out. Edward and I had started a serious relationship, he asked Max and me to live with him. He had given me the earrings. We got into a fight about me seeing Andre. And then tonight: going to see him, ending up in bed, and finding another butterfly earring in his bed.

“Oh, honey. He seemed like a lovely guy.”

“That’s the problem.” I was almost hysterical. “I’m a bad judge of character. That’s the one thing Dad always said. ‘One doesn’t judge a man by how much money he has, but by the strength of his character.’ For so many years I believed in Andre. And then I met Edward and I thought he was kind, and solid, and he’s even worse.”

“All men have faults,” she said uncertainly.

“Dad never cheated on you,” I said.

“Maybe times were different then, different standards, less temptation.”

“Only in your social circle. But I’m not a member of the San Francisco Junior League or the Friends of the Opera. Aren’t there any men who don’t wear a white tie on Saturday nights who can be faithful?”

Neither of us said anything. My mother got up and walked around the room. She straightened the mini bar, fluffed up the sofa cushions.

“Maybe you should take a break from men for a while and do something for yourself.”

“I love being Max’s mom. But I don’t want to be one of those single moms who pour all their energy into their kids: making three-course school lunches with homemade soup and a separate container for croutons.”

“Remember the day your father and I told you he had liver cancer?” she said.

“Yes,” I said, nodding.

“You came running down the stairs with your college acceptance letters. I’d never seen you look so happy, so sure of yourself.”

“Mom, I was eighteen.”

“Exactly, and your life was all about you. Before it became about taking care of your father, and me, and then Andre and Max. What do you want to do, for you?”

“You’ve been watching
Dr. Phil,
too.” I sighed.

“Think about yourself for a minute.”

I tried to picture a future without Andre, without Edward, with just me.

“You wanted to go to Parsons, and you didn’t because of your father,” my mother prompted me.

“That was fourteen years ago.” I shook my head.

“Do it now. You’re young, you have plenty of time to be the next Chanel.”

“Just pick up and go to New York with Max?” I laughed.

“Why not?”

“I wouldn’t be accepted. Andre is in California. Where would we live? Where would Max go to school?” I ticked the list off on my fingers.

“Let’s put all that aside for a minute. Would you like to attend Parsons, try out the fashion world?” She sat down on the sofa.

I closed my eyes and pictured myself in a classroom, sketching a pantsuit or a fabulous coat. I imagined interning with a designer, learning how to cut and fit the perfect dress.

“Well, sure. But I can’t just move Max.” I opened my eyes.

“It would only be a trial period for one year.”

“Andre wouldn’t let me.” I shook my head.

“He could move to New York, too, if he wants, work at a restaurant. But it seems Andre is pretty happy with his house and restaurant in Ross. He can visit Max every couple of months.”

“I couldn’t even get in to Parsons.” I shook my head.

“They accepted you before. Stella Braden is a trustee, you know, my old bridge partner. I’ll call her in the morning.”

“But where would we live, and where would Max go to school?”

“Miriam Johnson’s daughter lives in Manhattan, with her three children. I’ll call her in the morning, too.” My mother got up and put her hands on my shoulders.

“Let me do a little detective work,” she said.

“Okay, I guess.” I was suddenly so tired my eyelids flickered closed.

“Go to bed, honey. Let’s see what I come up with.”

Chapter Ten

I slept terribly. All night I lay under my thousand-thread-count Egyptian sheets, staring at the gold-and-yellow wallpaper, wishing it were morning. I fell asleep just before five a.m. and woke up sweating, with my sheets wrapped around me like a mummy.

My mother tapped on the door.

“Andre’s here,” she said, poking her head in. “He wants to take Max to breakfast.”

“Fine, just tell him to drop Max off at Kids’ Club after breakfast.” There was no way I was going to see Andre again.

“He wants to talk to you,” my mother whispered. I knew Andre was standing right outside the door, I could hear him talking to Max in French.

“Tell him I’ll send him a text.” I got up and locked the bedroom door.

*   *   *

I took my time getting up; I wanted Andre to be long gone before I went into the living room. I spent ages in my closet, picking out a dress. I finally settled on a peach-colored Juicy Couture terry dress, and platform sandals. Andre hated Juicy, he thought it was overpriced, and I had been avoiding wearing high heels since I met Edward. Today I was dressing for me. I debated whether to wear the butterfly earrings. I put them in my ears, brushed my hair into a ponytail, and looked in the mirror. I liked the way they sparkled; I kept them on.

“You look lovely,” my mother said, when I walked into the living room.

Room service had left an array of breakfast foods on the end table: French-pressed coffee, whole-grain bagels, English muffins, jam, Vegemite, grapes, cantaloupe, strawberries, and a bowl of whipped cream. “Thank you for getting rid of Andre for me,” I said, pouring myself a cup of coffee.

“I’ve been on the phone all morning.” My mother smiled.

“And?” I spread jam on an English muffin.

“Stella gave me the home number for the director of admissions at Parsons. Lovely man, his father lives in San Francisco and is on the board of the Asian Art Museum. I think we actually met a few times.”

“You know everyone.” I smiled. My mother was proud of her endless society connections.

“Anyway, you’re in,” she said.

“You’re kidding.” I put down my coffee cup.

“I told him how talented you are, how you’d given up your space because your father got cancer. Parsons starts the week after Labor Day.” She finished a piece of toast.

“You work fast, but what about Max?” I put the muffin back on the plate. Suddenly, I was too nervous to eat.

“Miriam gave me her daughter’s number. Her name is Penelope. Penelope has a son who’s nine and she sends him to a private school in the Village, just a few blocks from Parsons. She said it’s very small, only twenty-five kids per grade. They wear uniforms; Max would look so good in a uniform,” my mother mused.

“Should I phone the school? What’s it called?” I was getting excited. I imagined being in New York in the fall, attending the shows during Fashion Week, spying Gwyneth Paltrow and Kate Moss and Katie Holmes whispering in the front row.

“I already did. The headmaster was very nice, sounded a little young. He told me a boy going into third grade just withdrew, his family is spending the year in Paris.”

“There must be a waiting list.” All good private schools had waiting lists.

“I told him I’m looking to expand my philanthropic ventures outside of California and I was very interested in elementary education. Max is in.” My mother smiled. She was very pleased with herself.

“You mean you bribed your way in,” I laughed.

“Look at it anyway you like,” she said huffily.

“I’m sorry, Mom. I’m stunned. How did you do that in one morning, on the weekend?” I put some grapes and strawberries on a plate. At least I could try to eat some fruit.

“Aren’t you thrilled?” she asked.

“I’ve never lived outside California. What will Max say?”

“Max will say the same thing he did when you told him we were coming here: that it’s a cool new adventure. Tell him you’ll take him ice skating in Rockefeller Center. Times Square has a Nike store that’s as much fun as Disneyland. It’s New York, center of the universe.”

“What about Andre?” I fiddled with my napkin.

“Did Andre ask your permission when he took all those women to bed? It’s a year’s course. You can reevaluate next fall. Maybe he’ll move to New York and open a five-star restaurant.”

“I thought the point was to get away from Andre.” I shredded my napkin into little pieces.

“The point, Amanda, is to plan your future the way you want to live it.”

I didn’t say anything. Parsons. New York City. I remembered all the hours I spent in my mother’s dressing room watching her get ready when I was a child. The rows of dresses, each on their own satin hanger: princess dresses, full ball gowns, strapless sheaths. And the colors: tangerine, ballet-shoe pink, emerald green. Even at the age of nine or ten, I didn’t just want to wear those dresses; I wanted to make them. I wanted my label tucked on the inside.

“It sounds amazing, but it’s so soon. How will I find an apartment?” I started to wrap my brain around the idea: Max and I could move to New York and I could attend Parsons. I felt like Alice in Wonderland.

“I made one more call.” My mother looked so pleased with herself I didn’t know what to expect. Had she called Mayor Bloomberg to see if Max and I could bunk at the mayor’s mansion?

“I called the St. Regis in New York and booked you and Max a suite for as long as you need it.” She beamed.

“The St. Regis in New York? That would cost a fortune.” I shook my head.

“It was your father’s favorite hotel. Look at it as a present from him.”

“I can’t see Max and me living in a hotel. What would his school friends say?”

“With the price of that school, half his friends probably have penthouses at the Pierre or jets that take them to Palm Beach for the weekend. It’s Manhattan, Amanda. Lots of wealthy people have suites in hotels.”

“Well, maybe for a bit. Until we find an apartment.”

“For a week or a month or the whole year. You know how the staff here love Max, you’ll have the same thing there.” My mother poured herself a cup of coffee and stirred in milk and sugar.

She was right. Living at the St. Regis was like having a huge extended family; some staff member was always giving Max a bell cart ride, or a hot chocolate, or crayons and a coloring book.

“I guess you have it all figured out.” I put the plate of fruit down.

“It’s going to be so good for you.” My mother hugged me.

“I think you’re right.” I hugged her back.

“I’m always right. Promise me one thing: I get first look at your debut collection. I want an Amanda Blick original before anyone else gets one.”

“Deal. But I think it’ll be an Amanda Bishop original. It has a better ring to it.”

*   *   *

I didn’t eat the English muffin or the fruit. I didn’t even finish my coffee. I was amped on adrenaline and I thought I better put it to good use. At some point it would wear off, and the terror of what I was about to do—move to the East Coast, go back to school, try to have a career—would set in.

My first stop was the business center. I sat down at one of the computers and tapped out a long e-mail to Andre explaining that Max and I were going to New York. I wasn’t going to risk calling him and hearing him purr: “
Mais, non, ma petite cherie
. You cannot do that. I adore you.”

I explained that Max and I would come back to Ross for a few days to get our clothes, and at that time we would tell Max about the divorce. After I wrote the words I sat back in the office chair and studied them: “We will tell Max about the divorce.” It sounded so final, and for the first time since Black Tuesday, I thought I would survive. The more miles I could put between us, the faster I would heal.