Anne is walking down Sixth Avenue toward Le Bernardin to have lunch with her mother. It’s a cool sunny day and the air is deliciously dry. She’s decided to have the baby. If Farnsworth is the father, so be it. The child will still be hers. And if her marriage to Charles falls apart she won’t be alone. She’ll have Eliza, or Luke. She pulls her phone out of her purse.
“Kayla.”
“Anne.”
“I’m sorry I hung up on you.”
“No big deal. What’s up?”
“I’m going to have the baby.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“Anne, that’s sensational.”
“You’re going to be a godmother.”
“Whatever the hell that is.”
“Think expensive presents, savings bonds, that kind of thing.”
“I’m going to come to New York and throw you a huge garish shower. We’ll invite all sorts of celebs, get lots of press. You can start a new catalog called Kids at Home.”
“It’s already being prototyped.”
“It’s a bitch being best friends with a genius.”
“Don’t I know it. I’m on my way to have lunch with Mom, tell her the news.”
“Oh, God, she’s going to be so thrilled her face-lifts will crack. Even rich right-wingers love grandchildren. Makes them feel almost human. How’s Charles taking impending fatherhood?”
“Haven’t told him yet. Tonight.”
Anne walks into the cool confines of Le Bernardin. Suddenly she’s famished, longing for something rich and slightly ghastly, like a baked stuffed lobster. The maitre d’ is expecting her and escorts her to the choice front table where her mother is sitting. There’s a man sitting with her, his back to Anne.
“Darling, there you are!” Frances exclaims.
The man turns. It’s John Farnsworth. Anne feels her mouth go dry, her stomach hollow out. She puts a hand on the back of a chair to steady herself.
“Anne, how splendid to see you,” Farnsworth says, standing and bowing slightly, a gentleman of the old school.
The maitre d’ pulls out Anne’s chair and she sits.
“Anne, you look pale.”
“I’m fine, Mother. Hello, John.”
“I’m on my way out, I just popped over to flirt with your mother,” Farnsworth says. “Of course she’s much too young for me.”
Frances laughs at the cheap flattery. She looks exquisite in a Barbara Sinatra-ish kind of way, her skin tight and luminous, her golden hair sweeping down to frame her face. She’s wearing a beige wool suit with pink velvet trim-a southern Californian’s idea of autumn style. She lays a hand on one of Anne’s.
“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.