“Okay, Owen, Brigid, it’s chapel time.” I sigh.
When the cab turns the block in the 60s between Park and Madison, it’s stopped by a fleet of black SUVs jockeying for position perilously close to throngs of three-feet-tall people. I fling open the taxi door.
Brigid bolts out first, her cotton tights bunching at her ankles, her American Girl doll tucked under her arm like a newspaper. I think to myself, If only I took the time to really dress that child, if I detangled her hair and put her in smocked party dresses, I’d be a better mother. My thirty-seven-pound Owen begs to be carried, and because of how close we are to the front door, I comply. The smell of his morning hair with just a touch of strawberry jam is intoxicating and I feel slightly better about being here. Then I see Henry’s Escalade parked directly in front of the door, the place where no parents are supposed to park. I know it’s Henry’s car from his license plate, “POLO V.” Yes, he’s a polo player these days.
I command Owen, “Hug Mommy, really tight.”
Using my son as camouflage, I pretend to dash after Brigid and past the POLO-mobile, but my timing is off.
“Belle!” I’m passing too close to Henry to pretend not to hear.
I turn nonchalantly. “Hey, P. Diddy.”
“Nice shoes, Cassidy—er, McElroy.”
My heart stops. I know what he means before I even look down. Shoes. The famous doorman shoe-swap. Today I had forgotten the swap part because Brigid was with me. I look right in his eyes and past the dashing suit, the tint of gloss to blacken his hair, and the $25,000 Hollywood smile and try hard to remember when his teeth were crooked.
“Uh, they’re not my shoes.”
“They are your shoes, so pretty,” says Brigid.
“Mom!” Owen is whining to get inside.
I have red patent leather shoes on. Bright red, with heels. Henry stands there with his sons, perfectly tailored, blazered, and khakied. One extends his hand to greet me. Are these kids robots?
“Um, I’m not wearing these, you see,” I say weakly as I bend forward and shake the tiny hand while lowering Owen to the ground.
Both of his boys are quiet now, both looking at me quizzically.
“I pick out her shoes,” Brigid matter-of-factly informs the sons of Henry. My kid is getting street cred.
“Yes, you do.” I look right into the eyes of the elder Henry offspring and tell him, “Brigid has the best taste in shoes. These are extra-special. They make me run fast. They keep me from being late for chapel.”
I turn decisively, to quickly escape from Henry and bracing myself for the eyeballs of the PA Ladies. Let them feast their damn eyes on shoes that cost $9.99. I think I even used a coupon.
“Belle, see me after chapel,” Henry yells after me. “I have shoes for you in the car.”
“You have shoes—women’s shoes? What are you trying to tell me?”
“Not me, you know, my wife. She keeps supplies in the car.”
Henry lifts his finger and points to a coiffed Filipino man sitting in the driver’s seat. The driver does something that magically makes the back door of the POLO-mobile lift open. Henry reaches in and lifts up a nubuck leather cover to reveal a virtual micro-mall. In the back underbelly of Henry’s car there are clever little custom racks holding about seven pairs of shoes. There are five neatly folded cashmere sweaters, there are slacks, a jewelry box, running shoes, fur collar, hair accessories, makeup kit, yoga mat, and hairbrushes. Brigid, my future retailer, stands in awe and wants to touch. I can’t act impressed.
“Is she going on a camping trip?” I ask.
“Nope,” he says simply.
I reach forward and touch a pair of the Jimmy Choos that look museum-worthy. They have never been worn. Who spends $700 on a pair of shoes and keeps them like a spare Kleenex box in the car? I flip the shoe over.
“Size seven and a half. You should remember, Prince Diddy, that us size-ten-and-a-half girls resent the seven-and-a-half-ers.”
“I remember, ten and a half narrow.” He smiles now. It feels so good to still be able to make him laugh and I’m relieved. I turn and proudly march my red-shod feet into chapel, feeling just a bit of my groove coming back and thinking everything is going to finally be okay, but then as I squat myself on the floor and have the extra minute to turn off my phone, I allow myself to open another Metis memo. This is number ten.
To: All Employees
From: Metis
Subject: Equal Pay for Equal Work
As many employees prepare to be showered with money, let us hope that all persons who decide bonuses divvy money in a way commensurate with accomplishment and not according to gender, race, color, creed, time spent on the golf course, or time spent watching acrobatic women on poles.
The second I opened it, I wished I had not. The banjo player began booming out something about someone being his sunshine, his only sunshine, while I seethed at the stupidity of such a memo, so close to bonus season.
CHAPTER 20
Putting Out Feelers