Courtney Litz - Live From New York, It's Lena Sharpe

“Yes, I’m so sorry. We’re having some people over tonight, so it’s a bit chaotic here.” She said this in a way that seemed to convey that she didn’t mind the chaos so very much.

“Oh, I’m sorry—I don’t mean to interrupt. I can certainly call back at a better time.”

“Oh no, don’t be silly. I’m glad you called. I’m just so proud of Colin—I realize of course that that’s not a shock, coming from his mother after all.” She laughed. She did seem proud, but not in a boastful, “my child’s talent is a reflection of my own” or “isn’t it now obvious what a fabulous job I have done raising my child” way. Just genuine excitement and goodwill. Touching really.

“I was just calling to see if you might be willing to do a short interview for the piece—”

“I’m so sorry, Lena. One second.” And then, “Teresa, would you mind letting Emmylou in—she’s scratching at the door.” Emmylou! Colin’s Emmylou?! Yes, I was this excited over a dog.

“I know!” Libby Bates exclaimed suddenly. I wasn’t sure if she was talking to Teresa, Emmylou or me.

“Why don’t you come over tonight for the party and we can talk about it there?” She was pleased with her solution. I was speechless.

“Oh, well, of course,” I stammered and then, worried that I seemed rude, I tried to be more emphatic. “Of course, I’d love to.”

“Fantastic. We’re at one-eighteen East Ninety-second. You should come by around eight or so. It’s just a silly casual thing for the Central Park Children’s Zoo.”

“This is so kind of you, Mrs. Bates.”

“My pleasure, darling. Really. See you soon!”

I hung up the phone—confused, nervous and excited. This was not in my notes.

I flung open my closet and glanced at the clock. I had exactly four and a half hours to reinvent myself as the perfect daughter-in-law designate. I knew what I needed to do.

“I need your help.”

“Honey-bunny, what is it?” Jake said, sounding as if he’d just woken up. Or maybe he was drunk?

“I need you to come with me to Colin’s mom’s house tonight.”

“Lena, sweetheart. Tell me you’re not still fixated on this one, please.”

“It’s not a fixation,” I said, irritated by the description. “It’s a…it’s, I don’t have time to explain what it is. It’s my job. Can you come with me or not?”

“Well…”

“Just—can you come? Say yes.”

“I was planning on alphabetizing my CDs.”

“Nice try, but we both know they’re already alphabetized.”

“Not by genre.”

I said nothing.

“Seriously, I’m sorry, Lena—I have to watch Crumbcake tonight. She had some tests at the vet today and she’s wearing one of those lovely doggie cones around her neck. It’s a pathetic sight, really.”

Crumbcake was Miranda’s dog. Correction, “Gateau” was her dog; Crumbcake was what Jake had rechristened her. She was bony and loud, with a bracing bark that could sound both whiny and critical. In other words, she was Miranda.

“Bring her with you.” I knew then that I was, legitimately and officially, panicked.

“But she hates you, Lena.”

“True.” He had a point.

“Plus, Miranda will find out and then I’ll have to deal.”

I imagined Crumbcake and Miranda having a furious and intense discussion of her trauma.

“I know, I’ll ask Super Si to watch her,” I said. Si was my super and on more occasions than I care to remember, I had called on him to chase cockroaches around my apartment, fish a necklace out of the drain, and perform various forms of spackling triage on my crumbling walls. I call him Super Si because he’s a super and because, well, he’s super. I tried to explain this to him once, but it didn’t translate, like so many thoughts I had, when said out loud.

“God, Jake—for fuck’s sake, get over here.”

“Is there really a need to swear and use the Lord’s name in vain? I think one or the other would suffice.”

“Jake—it’s so not the time.”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry—I’ll vespa right over.” For the record, Jake did not have a Vespa, but he felt that he really should have one. No, he had a used ten-speed.

I felt calmer instantly. Jake’s skill with a closet was akin to a natural chef’s ability to transform saltines, ketchup and canned tuna into a sumptuous feast.

Exactly fifteen minutes later, Jake arrived. Head-to-toe Paul Smith. An irate Crumbcake accessory was the only thing that detracted from his perfection.

“You look…perfect,” I said with a mixture of envy and admiration.

Jake, oh so modestly, made an exaggerated, Mark Vanderloo-esque turn.

“I really, really do—don’t I?”

He was only half kidding.

“But there is one, reluctant concession.” Jake pulled from his pocket a gleaming gray silk tie like a magician displaying his hidden string of scarves. Jake didn’t do ties. I was touched. “Just in case.”

“So, how casual is casual?” he asked as he made his way to the kitchen to deposit Crumbcake.

“Therein lies my predicament—I’m not sure.”

“Do we have any clues? Indicators?”

“None,” I responded solemnly. “She just said that it was a benefit for a children’s zoo and that it was…casual.”

A somber tone had overtaken us both. We could have been talking about global warming, missile treaties, or maybe the ethical consequences of human cloning.

“I see, so it’s ‘casual,’ but not casual.” He seemed to have gleaned a key piece of information.

“Maybe I should just call and ask?”

“Better you show up nude. Then she’ll really know you’re a neophyte.”

“Do we have to resort to name-calling?”

“I don’t think you’re a neophyte—and all the better if you are. I’m channeling the mind-set of a sixty-year-old socialite, that’s all.” He shook off the thought with a chill.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.