Page 33 of The Husband Diet
He sighed. ‘I’m sorry. No.’
And that was his final word. But not mine.
*
Maddy was a jubilant little girl. Perhaps too jubilant. And she loved the hotel elevators. Just what I’d counted on. Our guests were amused by this charming little thing who hopped on and off for hours on end, striking ballet poses when the doors opened on her. She was a bit too vain for my taste, just like my mother. I hoped it would wear off soon. But today it served my purpose.
The news of the charming miniature ballerina reached Harold Farthington by the end of the day and he called me immediately. ‘I run hotels, not day care centers, Erica.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr. Farthington, but if you keep me away from my family, I have no choice but to bring my family here.’
There was a long silence.
‘Three trips per month,’ he said finally.
‘No. One,’ I bargained.
‘Two. That’s my final offer,’ he bargained back.
‘Only if I choose which ones to attend. And that’smyfinal offer, Mr. Farthington.’
This time the silence was longer. I found I was holding my breath and I realized I cared about keeping this job more than I thought. It was, after all, our family meal ticket. At least until I could get us to Italy.
‘Agreed,’ came his final verdict, and I grinned into the phone.
‘Thank you, sir. I appreciate it.’ It had taken me eight hours to crack the bastard.
12
Ball and Chain
Weeks later and I was still running around like a madwoman. One good thing about splitting up from Ira was that he wouldn’t be missed by the kids in the least. He was like a pro-forma father, existent in theory but not in practice.
By the time I got the kids to plunk their rear ends on their chairs for dinner, I was exhausted. I could have easily ordered a pizza or a KFC and called it a night, but it was important for me to do something for them. So together we baked different kinds of pizzas and a chocolate cake and played Twister until they howled with laughter at my less-than-dignified poses while I kept telling myself,yes, you’re heading in the right direction, Erica. This is what life’s all about.
That evening when I put the munchkins to bed, their eyes were drooping but at least their mouths weren’t. On her bedside table, Maddy had left me a drawing. Like me, she was very arty. She loved colors and when she had a packet of Smarties, instead of shooting them down her throat missile-style like I did, she played with them, passing them from one hand to the other, watching the flow of blues, pinks and reds, mystified. In dismay, I’d often watched her use hand-paints on the living room walls with vigorous, almost ferocious creativity. And then Paul would come up with some obscure cleaning product that worked miracles, saving the day.
Like me, she was dying to express herself and be free of restrictive boundaries like the lines in her coloring books. Like the thick black lines surrounding my own life.
Maddy was more like me in every way. For this, I have to thank my grandmother’s genes and her solid presence in my life. Nonna Silvia taught me everything I know. Thanks to her, I actually had a shot at homemaking. But sometimes, when I dropped the kids off for parties or sleepovers, I craved to be like those slim, suburban cookie-cutter moms in pearls and pastel twinset tops, smiling and waving at me from their pristine doorsteps while I sped past them, still secretly pulling my tights on or applying deodorant. I know, I’m a real class act.
If I had more time, my house could be pristine, too. I was managing to cook meals and give my children quality time and help with their homework and be the mother Marcy never was. Who cared if my windows still needed doing? Sometimes it was easier to watch the world through an opaque glass anyway.
The other moms, who were all stay-at-homes, knew I had a high-power job and I’m sure they had something to say about that among themselves. I didn’t belong in their circle and would never be one of those straight-bobbed, tennis bracelet moms. The elitist group of perfect women – helicopter moms, if you ask me – would always elude me, no matter how hard I tried.
But exactly how perfect were they in reality? Did any of them have pseudo-homicidal thoughts about their husbands like me? Did they have satisfying sex lives? Or did they simply survive by taking a lover? I didn’t have time for a man unless he wore an apron and an earring, and his name was Mr. Clean. But I always had time for my erotic Headmaster Foxham dreams, which didn’t count because they didn’t impact on my waking hours.
Sometimes, when I returned from my business trips, I crept to the kids’ rooms just to sit and breathe in their fresh baby scent, Maddy would roll over and look at me, eyes huge in her pink princess nightlight, and stare at me as if I were her fairy godmother and not simply her mom. I guess she saw me so rarely lately that she was beginning to wonder if I was just another fairy-tale creature. And if I existed only at night, for a brief moment. She would watch me in awe, before her long baby lashes finally fluttered as she succumbed to her baby dreams.
Now that I was completely on my own, I had to organize a nine-to-five shift, or better, a nine-to-three one, where I could be there to pick up Warren and Maddy after school.
‘Why don’t you just quit?’ my aunt Maria suggested simply one day as she was preparing Le Tre Donne’s winter special for the day, the vegetable minestrone. No frozen veggie bags for her restaurant, no sir. Every day, she and her sisters got up at 4 a.m. to make bread, cakes, muffins and serve breakfast, then they’d start preparing lunch. I often came here on my break to grab a quick bite. And for some family gossip that was usually about my mom’s latest extravagance, invariably a shopping spree in New York.
‘Quit my job?’ I could feel my eyes pop out of my head as I drank the coffee Zia Maria had brewed me. ‘How would I even manage to survive? Besides, the women in our family have always worked. What if Zia Monica heard you?’
Zia Monica was the youngest of Marcy’s sisters and the most progressive. She’s a Xerox copy of my nonna Silvia, in both body and soul. She believes in progress, particularly for women, and technology. For a woman to quit her job and be a homemaker was unheard of. Of course, all three sisters were spinsters. The most beautiful spinsters I’d ever seen.
Zia Maria pointed her potato peeler at me and grinned. ‘You could always come and work here. Give your mother a heart attack.’
