LITMIR.BIZ

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she had to explain to me. Clearly my naiveté was exhausting her.

      I wondered what it would be like to live inside Parker’s head—to love your job and not question its “meaning” constantly, to see your future in front of you, down to the color scheme of your first child’s (a boy—Bennett, or if it’s a girl— Bethany) nursery. What was it like to imagine your husband and see an actual face that you knew—not some vague collection of traits that seemed “ideal” but weren’t any more real than your childhood crush on Andy Gibb? Parker knew the rules and played the game. She knew what she wanted and she went after it with a zeal that sometimes scared me. She believed in the hierarchy of the world and comfortably, confidently, took her place within it. It was fun to make jokes about her new obsession with tulle and taffeta and her search for a good-looking reformed rabbi who wouldn’t dwarf Brad, but at least she was living a real life, planning real events that were meaningful, not snidely standing by on the sidelines waiting for something, anything to happen.

      “So, I don’t know, Lena—I know it’s a lot to ask, but would you mind?”

      “Uh…” I had no idea what she was talking about.

      “It’s just that your color, as nice as it is, doesn’t quite complement the overall theme.” Parker raised her hands grandly and fluffed up the hair around my face, her eyes squinting critically.

      “What color do you want it to be?” I asked.

      “Brown with copper undertones.” She smiled brightly.

      “My hair is brown, Parker.”

      “Yes, but it has golden undertones.”

      Yes, I thought, Parker’s world made sense to her. It did not, however, make sense to me.

      “Parker!” One of her publicity plebes rushed to her side, his headset tangled in his overgelled hair. He blurted out some story about a nasty goody-bag tiff and Parker rose from her seat like a general facing the enemy.

      I breathed a sigh of relief. Now that Tess was gone and dinner was taken care of (making a well-balanced meal out of finger food was a particularly good skill of mine), I figured it was time to call it a night. But then…

      “Mind if I sit down?” A guy wearing a rumpled blue suit and a loose tie took over Parker’s vacated seat. Lightning-quick mental assessment: Points added—broad shoulders, full head of hair. Points subtracted—ditch the cuff links and (oh no!) lose the class ring for God’s sake.

      Points to be determined—these events were usually all business, more about the illusion of a good time than the actual act—the subject’s approach could indicate that he’s an event novice, a naive young thing who has mistaken a publicity party for the pickup scene at the Cub Room.

      “I’m Skip.” Skip. This wasn’t looking good. Point subtracted.

      “I’m Lena—nice to meet you.” Well, you have to be polite, after all.

      “So, do you work for TCT?”

      After a moment of confusion, I realized he was talking about the “star” of the party—some tech company’s newest cell phone model (which Parker would gladly tell you both Brad Pitt and Gisele “absolutely swore by”). I imagined a walking phone with a feather boa and Gucci stilettos sauntering by.

      “No, no…just a fan.” I decided to joke with Skip. He looked confused.

      “Yeah, so—I’m here with some friends from UBS.”

      Okay, I swear I’d misheard him when I said the following. “You work for UPS?”

      “No.” Skip looked genuinely offended. “UBS—the investment bank,” he said, with a tone mixing both condescension and disdain. Did he know Nadine, I wondered? And what was so bad about UPS?

      “So, what do you do at UBS?” I asked, in an attempt to ease his wounded ego.

      “Well,” he inhaled. And we were off. Let the discussion of “me, Skip” commence.

      It always amazed me how some men would answer this question with such intense, highly unnecessary detail. I watched Skip’s overbleached teeth bob up and down as he talked about internal messaging systems and transaction litigation. I noticed a mole, just under his nose. It had a long gray whisker just waiting to be plucked.

      “So, me and the boys are just out to celebrate the deal.”

      And so you came to a phone party.

      “I know the party planner and she got me in,” he added.

      Oh Lord, he was talking about Parker. I recoiled at the notion that Skip and I had other connections between us besides our mutual attendance at a phone party.

      “So, what do you think of this tie?” His eyes gleamed. His eyes were gleaming over a tie. Bless him.

      “Uh, it’s great.” How else do you answer that question?

      “Got it down in Dallas when we were scouting out the service provider like I was telling you. Funny story, actually…”

      Actually no, it would not be a funny story. Not at all, that much I was sure about. Why was Skip talking to me in the first place, I thought to myself while he droned on? He must, in some deep, dark recess of his beer-soaked, post-big-deal, three-martini-lunch state of mind, think there was a possibility that we had some level of compatibility?

      He grabbed a chicken skewer from a passing tray. I looked at him and knew he was one of those guys who spread his legs out on the subway, taking up an extra seat. I watched him concentrate on his skewer, like an animal with his kill. I hated him right then. Intensely. I bet he played golf.

      I really was being harsh. On some level I knew I was wrong and petty. Maybe, just maybe, Skip saw something that I wasn’t able—wasn’t ready—to see.

      “Hey,” Skip looked up from his skewer. Our eyes met. “Did I mention that I really like your hair?”

      The next morning, as Andre dutifully put the finishing touches on my new cut, I mentally repented for my previous night’s transgressions and made my usual resolution never to drink or smoke again, to go to the gym, reorganize my closet, and to be nicer to men like Skip in the future.

      “Little bit different this time, Lena darling.”

      “New season, new me.”

      Andre winked at me approvingly in the mirror. I wish I could wink like that. Mental note: work on wink.

      Not that I felt sorry for Skip—not in the least. Skip, in all his plain vanilla banality, was going to lead a perfectly pleasant, content life. After all, he fit into the world’s design like a hand in a glove (preferably by Brooks Brothers, of course). He very likely laughed at sitcoms, enjoyed dinners at the Country Club, and thought corporate culture was good and natural. He probably wasn’t even embarrassed to read People magazine in public. Despite myself, or perhaps as some sort of punishment for my previous rudeness, I couldn’t stop myself from imagining our life together…

      I would drive a Honda minivan—we had considered a Lexus SUV, but that really wasn’t the place to put our money right now, what with the kids being small and the dog would tear it up anyway, so the minivan it would be. There would, of course, be a bumper sticker espousing our love for some sporting team or proudly trumpeting our honor-student kids. Our life would be a cheerful stew of organized events—PTA meetings, neighborhood board meetings, Little League games, homecoming games, bake sales, charity drives, 5K runs, winter carnivals and summer barbecues. I’d wear a bob and layers of loose-fitting clothing by Dana Buchman and Eileen Fisher. Natural fibers, earth tones and sensible shoes would enter my life. I would make casseroles. We would play bridge.

      I couldn’t continue. And I wondered if it was because, perhaps, that life didn’t really seem as odious as I would like to imagine.

      I exhaled audibly as I exited the salon, feeling safe in the knowledge that Andre—who was at least twenty

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