Plus One (11 page)

“No—not at all. I've got kids, Jeff. They're little. I'd like to be around for them. Plus I've got… other projects. Some really exciting projects. I've got this amazing punk rock publication—there's talk of a relaunch. Also some exciting things happening with sustainable meats. Plus there's some writing I'd like to do.”

The room fell silent. Alex shifted uncomfortably.

Kanter leaned back and laced his fingers around the back of his head. “Look, if this is about the cookbook thing—I could've spun that better. But you've gotta understand—clients expect me to present the work. I'm the
brand
here. TestiCure hired Jeff Kanter. Jeff Kanter delivers. And I can't afford to dilute the Jeff
Kanter brand.”

Alex stiffened. “So that makes me, what? A
brand diluter
?”

“No, no, you're more of… a brand
enhancer
.”

Disgust roiled up in Alex's chest. He needed to make a quick exit. He rapped his knuckles on the desk. “I wish you all the best. Really I do. But I can't stay on now—it wouldn't be fair to either of us. There's just a lot going on for me right now. I can't ignore these opportunities.”

He was two steps from the door when Kanter called after him.

“I like the confidence, kiddo,” Kanter said. “But a word of advice—don't be an idiot. What's happened for your wife is great, the show's terrific, all that—but you, you don't get it. Your wife's success didn't somehow magically transfer to you. Her hitting it didn't give you superpowers.”

Alex paused at the door, suddenly dizzy. He swiveled around, his gaze spinning around the room before landing on the credenza beside the desk: the CLIOs, the Ogilvys, those creepy framed photos of his kids. “Okay—a little advice for
you
,” he said. “Maybe get some different pictures in here? Something that's not—twenty years old? These aren't so good… for the
brand
.”

Five

D
id Katherine Pool count as a celebrity? Did a Paperless Post invite count as an email? Alex surveyed his inbox and chewed on a fingernail, finally deciding that yes, Katherine Pool's starring role in
Tricks
and occasional appearance in the tabloids qualified her as a celebrity, and that yes, a Paperless Post message, having traveled through the tubes and slots of the Internet, did indeed count as an email. All of which meant that yes, he'd just received an actual email from a real celebrity.

As he clicked on the link on the message, he cringed at the subject line—“A sip and a dip with Kate & Huck”—quickly concluding this was probably just an invite to a cutesy charity event, the kind of thing where you pay $1,000 for the privilege of milling around in the backyard of a fancy house. (
Please use the Honey Wagons by the guesthouse! Thanks so much!
) But as the invitation loaded into his browser, he saw that he and Figgy were the only recipients. And while the message had come from Katherine
Pool's account, it had clearly been prepared by the man of the house. “I'm doing dry-rub short ribs,” Huck wrote. “Get your skinny-jeans-ass over here. Bring the kiddies.”

“Might be fun?” Alex wrote, forwarding the invite to Figgy. She and Katherine Pool weren't on the best terms—they communicated mostly through agents and intermediaries and had started the second season in a cordial but simmering standoff. Alex figured he'd have to employ some major diplomacy to convince Figgy to go.

It turned out, however, that Figgy needed no convincing. She'd been dying, in fact, to get inside Katherine Pool's house, a six-bedroom Hancock Park spread that had been lavishly covered in the
StarHomes.com
celebrity real estate blog. “I heard they did an
insane
remodel,” she said.

As they walked up the curved flagstone path on the appointed morning, lugging a sack of bathing suits and a box of pastries, Alex shook his head at the sight of the Sherman-Zicklin clan. Somehow, the kids had gotten the message they were going somewhere
fancy
. While this wasn't enough to get Sylvie to comb her hair, which was its usual chaotic tangle, she'd insisted on wearing a frilly yellow party dress, which was already smudged with chocolate croissant. Sam was in a button-down shirt two sizes too big and a paisley patterned vest, his hair slicked back with homemade Sammy's Salves Styling Mousse. He stood primly on the stoop with hands folded at his chest, radiating a look Alex scanned as Seedy Mormon.

“Figgy, sweetie!” The door had swung open and there was Katherine. She looked just like she did on TV but more so, with the big moony face, long tapering neck, and huge hazel eyes unblinking over a fluorescent stroke of coral lipstick. She pulled Figgy into a tight embrace and held it for a good five or six seconds, emitting a long
mmmm
. “Soooo glad you could make it.”

Katherine showed them through the door. “Kids—we'll all
jump in the pool later,” she said. “For now we've got a trampoline and art stuff outside. And Alex, I think Huck needs you.”

She trailed off on the introduction once they'd arrived in the kitchen. Alex stopped cold. The room was the size of a gymnasium and had the spare, strictly accessorized feel of a Nancy Meyers movie set. The whiteness was overwhelming—white glass-front cabinets, white leather barstools, a white honed-marble island so large it qualified as a continent. Every visible surface was smooth, stainless, gleaming.

“Oh my,” Alex said, suddenly picturing his own kitchen piled high with mismatched kitchenware, banged-up appliances, and unopened mail. “So this is what they call a great room.”

“We redid everything last year before moving in,” Katherine said, twirling around near the sink. “Or rather, Huck redid everything. He was here with the contractor every single day. He hammered. He plastered. He caulked!”

“I'm known for my huge caulk,” Huck called from the cutting board, his voice echoing off the cathedral ceiling. Alex went over and gave him a one-armed embrace. He wore a short-sleeved polo underneath some sort of black nylon cover that snapped at the back. It took Alex a second to realize what it was.

“Dude, is that a
man apron
?”

“Got it at Malcolm's,” Huck said, giving himself a quick brush-off. “Separate pockets for utensils. Keep my best ceramic carving knife right here,” he said, reaching down and then twirling a white blade around like a pistol.

“Your place,” Alex said. “It's incredible. You did the remodel?”

Huck motioned toward a cutting board near Alex. “Ton of work, but we got there. You can't let those contractors get comfortable. Dudes will rob you blind.”

Alex picked up a mound of scallions and got to chopping. As they worked, Huck monologued about the awesomeness of his tube-amp record player setup, the awesomeness of his jujitsu
trainer Sensei Rick, and the awesomeness of his urologist, Dr. Finkelstein. “I went in for the ol' snip-snip last month,” he said proudly, thrusting his hips forward. “Changed my life. Finkelstein's a total rock star. You barely feel it—then you get two days watching TV with some Vicodin and a bag of frozen peas.”

Alex offered an appreciative murmur here and there, but it was clear his participation in the conversation was not required. His only job was to bear witness to the utter excellence of Huck's life.

Out the sliding glass doors, Alex watched the kids frolicking across a rolling green lawn. Sylvie and the raven-haired Penelope were running circles around a pair of easels while Sam and Bingwen attempted somersaults on a trampoline sunk to grass-level. The ladies had pulled up seats at the island and were halfway into a pitcher of Bloody Marys. From his station near the stove, Huck motioned majestically at the scene and touched Alex on the shoulder.

“It just gets better, am I right?”

Alex swallowed hard, stifling a gag. He wanted so much to like Huck, but declarations like this made it hard. Huck seemed blissfully unaware of Katherine's contribution, or for that matter any of the nannies, nutritionists, contractors, beauticians, trainers, life coaches, and metaphysical therapists that kept the show going. It seemed to Alex that Huck had made a deal with himself. If househusbandry made him a pussy, then he'd be the most capable and involved and commanding pussy ever to don a man apron: the alpha pussy.

Huck turned to get a tray from the stove, and Alex headed over to the ladies, who were deep into a conversation about schools (this, along with vacation plans and dietary regimens, seemed to be the sole topics up for discussion in their social circles of late). Figgy was halfway into a complaint about the neighborhood elementary school where the kids had been enrolled since kindergarten.
“We've
got
to get out of there,” she said, shaking her head. “Seriously, you can bake all the vegan muffins you like, but when you've got thirty-five kids in a trailer they call a classroom, you're pretty much screwed. Her teacher can't even spell the signs on the reading wall. I had to rip down a sign that said A-M-I-N-A-L.”

Alex nodded and made a sympathetic grunt. He'd given up defending their local public school. He loved how close it was and how they could, in theory anyway, walk the four blocks from their house. He loved the school's squat, solid, geometric architecture, the comforting beige of the walls, and the heavy metal desks. He even kind of liked the crazy mix of Spanish, Farsi, and Armenian on the schoolyard. But Figgy was right: The overcrowding was ridiculous, and the teaching was uninspired. The whole place was, when he thought about it now, downright
raunchy
. He could feel his staunch commitment to public education wilting by the second.

“Oh, you've
got
to come look at the Pines,” Katherine said.

So they were Pines people—of course. The Pines was a progressive private school that would, for $32K a year, teach your kids calculus and Mandarin without ever forcing them to wear a collared shirt. It was something like the K-12, co-op Freeschool he'd attended in Ojai, except with an endowment and actual academic standards. Pines people were famously loyal. Cultish even.

“Penelope is
thriving
in the music program—you should hear her on the trombone!” Katherine said. “You know, trombone is basically a free pass into the Ivies. It's crazy, I know—but you've
got
to keep these things in mind. Saves a whole lot of worry down the line.” Alex looked out the window at the girls. Penelope was peering at a half-complete pointillist landscape, while his own daughter was slumped on the grass, one hand busy adjusting her underpants and the other lodged up a nostril.

Alex sucked in a breath, suddenly registering a delicious odor, a mix of warm dough and melting cheese. Huck came over with
a basket of cheddar muffins. The four of them lurched forward and began stuffing themselves. He watched Katherine tip her face back in orgasmic pleasure. “Oh hon,” she said. “You are a god. A cheese-muffin god. Never leave me and never stop making these.”

Alex took a big bite and looked out at the kids. “The Pines?” he said. “Definitely on our list.”

• • •

Figgy had a conference call with the network when they got home—episode two needed a stronger third act or ramped-up stakes or smash-cut or blow-out, Alex couldn't keep the lingo straight—so he was put in charge of the nightly ritual of bath, books, and bed. He hustled Sam in and out of the shower and got him settled without much fuss, but he ran into trouble with Sylvie and her bath.

Sylvie had been fighting a mysterious, stubborn urinary infection for the past month. Alex had finally broken down and taken her to the pediatrician the day she woke up shrieking and scratching. Thankfully, it seemed to be clearing up after a dose of antibiotics, a talk about the importance of wiping correctly, and the regular use of a special soap Sylvie called her “gi-gi soap.”

All things gi-gi-related were usually Figgy's department, but she was on her call, so Alex was left to handle it. He knelt next to the tub and shampooed her hair, wiping streaks of paint off her face and arms and then picking up the medicated soap.

“You okay, hon?” Alex said, rubbing up a lather in the washcloth and lowering it into the steaming water.

Sylvie was busy with a rubber duck with devil horns and sunglasses. “I'm fine.”

Alex soaped up her stomach first, and then, as gently as he could, worked his way down. Sylvie released the duck and appeared to tense up.