Page 4 of Close Match
Hours later, we’re standing in Saks so Mom can find a new Judith Leiber clutch. Mom has an obsession with the crystal clutches and builds her look for the Tony Awards around them. I’ve already convinced her that the one that looks like a ball and chain isn’t quite the look she’s going for. Bristol had to make a run for the ladies’ room when they pulled one that looked like an enormous tomato out from the case. When she came back, I didn’t even have to ask. “It reminds me of salsa. And that reminds me of…”
“Cilantro,” we both say together before laughing hysterically. Our mother rolls her eyes before turning her attention back to the saleswoman.
“Okay, girls, I’m down to three,” she announces. Laid out on velvet are a crystal ice cream cone, a red-and-white-striped popcorn holder—with the popcorn, of course—and a teddy bear that—I narrow my eyes—has the face of a gummy bear.
“Not the ice cream,” Bristol says immediately. I agree, but I want to hear her reason with my temperamental mother. Then again, as an investment banker for UBS, she is calm, brilliant, and logical. It’s one of the many reasons Simon, Mom, and I trust her with our investments.
“Why?” Mom’s pouting. Of course, the most flamboyant of the bunch was her favorite.
“Because the jewels on the bottom don’t scream elegance to me. If anything, Mom, it looks a bit”—she lowers her voice—“juvenile.” Mom’s appalled. She immediately pushes the superfluous bling of the ice cream sundae purse to the side. The salesperson calmly puts it back in the case, knowing someone will buy it.
Bristol is smooth. Mentally, I give her a high five. Mom embraces her age and wisdom. She lords it over us. She thinks the silver streaks left artfully in her hair make her look regal. There is no greater insult than to tell her she looks like a teeny-bopper.
Down to two.
I step in. “Mom, I think the popcorn is cliché,” I say bluntly. “You’re going to a theater awards show. You don’t want them to write that about you in the press.”
She shudders. Using a nail, she pushes the velvet with the popcorn clutch away. “This one was actually the one I liked the least.” Her voice has a bit of a whine to it.
Bristol and I exchange looks. “Just think, by the time you carry this, everyone’s going to know you’re going to be a grandmother,” I whisper.
Mom turns her head, and her blue eyes meet my green ones. They have tears forming. “I never thought of that.”
My lips tip up. “You’ll be the talk of the red carpet carrying that bag in a dark purple gown, making everyone wonder boy or girl,” I murmur.
“I raised such smart girls,” she declares. And she did raise us on our own after our father died when we were young of lung cancer. It was horrible because there were practically no symptoms. As far back as I can remember, he was coughing and wheezing, but we attributed it to his asthma. No one knew until it was too late and his illness was too far advanced. In some ways, it was merciful; in so many others, it led to years of guilt.
For all of us.
Leaning over, I kiss her on the cheek. “Now, can we get out of here? We have a show to get ready for.”
Turning back to the salesperson, she announces, “This is it, young man.”
“Will that be on a Saks account?”
Bristol steps in. “No, American Express.” Muttering to herself, she adds on, “Like I’d let her get a Saks account with what they charge for interest.”
I grin. What can you do?
Prepare for the show to go on. That’s what.
* * *
“Ugh,what did you put in your mouth tonight?” I mutter in disgust as Simon and I make our way off stage right.
He throws a dazzling smile at me, and his noxious breath almost knocks me into the red velvet curtain when he says, “Cilantro and ginger hummus. It was del—”
I slap my hand over his mouth. “Stop talking. Right now. Until you get a breath mint, I swear, you can’t speak.”
“We eth ogo un eery ecs, aril,” he mumbles behind my hand. I have no idea what the hell he said. Nor do I particularly care.
“I thought I told you not to—” He licks my hand. Ew, gross. Now my fingers are going to smell like that soapy crap for the rest of the night.
“We go on in less than thirty seconds, darling.” Stopping a stagehand, he calmly asks for a breath mint. Our antics are legendary by now to the stagehands. We’re both unsurprised when he’s handed both a mint and a breath strip for his tongue. He begins chomping down on the mint in my ear.
Gah! That sound is like nails being run down a chalkboard. I loathe the sound of food being eaten so vocally. It drives me insane.
“I hate you,” I declare, in this moment genuinely meaning it.
