Sebastian Stuart - The Mentor

“It’s so good to see you. How are you? Busy as a mad bee, no doubt. My daughter the superstar.”

A waiter appears. Anne would love a martini but orders herbal tea. Farnsworth orders Scotch, and Frances carrot juice spiked with a shot of vodka.

“My yoga teacher approves of vodka,” she announces.

“We won’t bore your mother with business talk, Anne.”

“Oh, go ahead, my husband does it all the time,” Frances says. She and Farnsworth laugh.

Anne has a hard time looking at him, at that jowly red face. She gets a whiff of his bay rum and it brings back a flood of memories-that bay rum curdling into sweat and lust and sour breath. She wants to pick up her knife and jab it into his eyeball.

“She’s quite a gal, this daughter of yours,” Farnsworth says. He places a moist heavy hand on one of Anne’s. She pulls hers away and opens her napkin.

“I’m so proud of her. You know that, don’t you, darling?”

“Thank you. I think I get a lot of my drive from you.”

“And your beauty,” Farnsworth adds.

“Isn’t he awful?” Frances says to Anne.

“Awful.”

Their drinks arrive. Anne inhales the soothing aroma of her chamomile tea.

“News flash-I snagged Jay Leno for our hospital benefit,” Frances announces. “Terribly nice man. Absolute professional. We’re going to raise two million or I’m a monkey’s uncle.”

“That’s terrific, Mother.”

“I probably should have gone into business myself. But back in my salad days, women just didn’t.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t like business, Frances. You’re far too cultured. Business is brutal. Isn’t it, Anne?”

“It certainly can be.”

“We cover it with a veneer of civility, but it’s really the law of the jungle out there.”

“Well, here’s to the veneer,” Frances says, lifting her drink and taking a long swallow. “God, I adore carrot juice.”

Anne feels as if she’s stepped outside herself and is watching the scene from a remove. The muffled clink of dinnerware and chatter of the other diners becomes a surreal buzz. Her limbs begin to tingle. She puts her hands around her teacup for warmth.

“Anne, has John told you that he and Marnie have endowed a gallery at the Museum of Fine Arts up in Boston? It’s terribly exciting. The dedication ceremony is in March. Dwight and I are going,” Frances says.

“How is your wife?” Anne asks.

“Marnie? She’s fine. Up to her ears as usual.”

“That’s good news. Last time I saw you she was ill.”

“Oh, that. Turned out to just be a forty-eight-hour flu.”

Sour bile bubbles up at the back of Anne’s throat. “Will you excuse me?” she says quickly. She stands and forces herself to take measured steps as she crosses the restaurant. In the ladies’ room, she leans over the toilet and retches out a thin stream of watery brown fluid. She sits down and waits for the dizziness to pass. Her mouth tastes rancid. She hastily gets a cup of water, rinses out her mouth and spits into the sink, then takes a long drink. With her mouth open she draws deep, steadying breaths. Finally she feels halfway human. She pulls her phone out of her purse.

“Dr. Arnold’s office.”

“This is Anne Turner, may I speak to Dr. Arnold please, it’s an emergency.”

As she waits for the doctor to come on the line, Anne presses a palm against the cool marble of the sink.

“Judith Arnold, Anne.”

“I’d like to schedule an abortion. As soon as possible.”

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes. I just want to get this over with.”

“You’re at approximately how many weeks?”

“Twelve.”

“Then we don’t have much time.” There’s a pause and then Dr. Arnold says, “How’s Friday at eleven?”

“Good.”

“See you then. You’re sure you’re all right?”

“I’ll be a lot better after Friday.”

When Anne returns to the table, Farnsworth is standing with his hands on the back of his chair.

“I’m off. It was a pleasure seeing you both. Anne, let’s have lunch next week.”

“I’ll call you,” Anne says.

“And, Frances, if you ever want to make a little mischief…”

“Oh, be gone, you terrible man,” Frances says with a big smile.

Anne sits down and looks at her perfect little salad, which she can’t possibly eat.

“I swear John Farnsworth and your stepfather are cloned from the same DNA,” Frances says, taking a bite of her salad. “Superb salad. Anne, what is the matter with you? I know-Charles’s book. Well, darling, that’s what you get for marrying a man in the arts. Live by reviews, die by reviews. Now what’s the big news you were going to tell me?”

Anne takes a drink of water.

“Oh, that. Just that the Home website is up. It looks great. Sales are strong.”

“Why, of course they are. Oh, look, it’s Sadie Post.” An L.A. X-ray approaches the table in a shimmery white pants suit no self-respecting New Yorker would be caught dead in, even before Labor Day. “You naughty girl, you didn’t tell me you were going to be in New York. You know my celebrity daughter, don’t you?”

“Mother, I didn’t realize how late it was. I’m not going to have time for lunch.”

“Then you’ll join us,” Sadie says to Frances.

As she walks out into the reviving air Anne has only one thing on her mind-revenge. She takes her phone from her purse and calls Kayla.

As Charles’s Jaguar approaches the Newark Airport exit, Anne is taking a mental inventory of what she’s packed for her overnight trip to Chicago: jogging shoes for her run by the lake, a suit for her tour of a South Side textile factory she’s thinking of contracting, a dress for dinner, slacks and a shirt for the flight home. Usually these quick mental scans reassure her. Not this time.

Anne looks out the window at the airport approach road lined with squat, graceless buildings. Suddenly the world seems a bleak, senseless place. Dread sweeps over her. The day after tomorrow she’ll have the abortion.

She looks over at Charles. The other night, in the middle of a conversation, he forgot what they were talking about. She reaches over and touches his forearm. “I hate to be going away right now.”

“It’s only overnight.”

“Overnight can be a long time.”

“Anne, don’t worry,” he says, not taking his eyes off the road.

“I can’t help it.”

“What about the pregnancy?”

“It may just be that stress has been throwing off my period. You know how that sometimes happens to me.”

Charles pulls out a pack of cigarettes.

“Oh, shit, give me one,” Anne says.

Charles hands her the pack and she lights one. He doesn’t.

The cigarette tastes hot and acrid, but she keeps smoking it. “I don’t understand why you fired Nina.”

“Let’s face it, Anne, she wasn’t delivering.”

“But she’s a friend.”

“I know she is. And I hope she can remain one.”

“Would you mind if I called her?”

“I’d rather you didn’t. Look, Anne, it wasn’t easy for me. I think a fallow period would be best.”

“I don’t know if I can just let her go like that.”

“For Christ’s sake, Anne, the woman is losing her touch. And I’m not going to let friendship or anything else stand in my way.”

There it is again, that tone in his voice, that harsh, heartbreaking tone. It scares Anne.

“Your work’s going well, that’s the most important thing,” she says, almost to herself.

Charles pulls up in front of the terminal, they get out, and he retrieves Anne’s bag from the trunk.

“You can still surprise me, Charles.”