Page 45 of A Matter of Pedigree
“Where’s he gonna stay at your house?” asked Mom. “You got your mother, don’t you? And you know how Frank likes his routine; he wants to watch what he wants to watch on TV when he wants to watch it. And don’t get in between him and his bathroom! How are you going to take care of Frank and Frank-O at the same time?”
“I’ll manage,” said Carole, noticing that Polly was definitely looking nervous.
“I could go to a hotel,” she said, without enthusiasm.
“I got a better idea,” said Mom. “Frank-O should come and stay with me and Big Frank. We got plenty of room, and Big Frank’ll feed him up good.”
It was an offer from heaven. The woman was a gray-haired angel in a roomy turquoise polyester sweatshirt with matching elastic-waist pants and arch-support Skechers. “That okay with you?” she asked Frank-O.
“Sure, sounds great,” he replied, reaching for the TV remote. The small movement started up a bout of coughing, and Mom hurried to give him a drink of water.
“You behave yourself; don’t give your grandparents any trouble,” warned Carole. “If your dad hears …”
“He won’t be any trouble,” said Mom, beaming at her grandson. “We’re happy to have him.”
“This is such a relief, I can’t tell you,” said Carole, checking her Cartier watch. “Oh, God, I’ve got to get back. I’ve got that meeting with Celerie Lonsdale.” On her way to the door, she paused, remembering Polly. “Do you want to come?”
“I think I’ll stay here, catch up with Giovanna,” said Polly.
Polly almost asked who the hell was Giovanna, when she remembered that was Mom’s name.
“That’ll be nice,” said Mom, shooing Carole out the door. “Go on.”
Carole left in a flurry of hugs and kisses, getting back to the Esplanade just as Celerie Lonsdale was arriving in her little white van. With her shoulder-length blond hair, Hermès scarf, cashmere jacket, and tweed pants, she might have stepped from the pages ofTown and Countrymagazine. She was very excited, she told Carole, as they went up to the apartment, to be working in the building, which she found quite impressive. “The space!” she declared, waving her arm at the enormous lobby. “That’s what’s so great about these old factories—they have so much room. And these tall ceilings!”
When they got to the apartment, Poopsie took an immediate dislike to Celerie, and Carole shut her in the master bath. Once the dog was safely confined, she gave Celerie a tour of the apartment, steeling herself for a critical review.
But Celerie seemed to approve or was too smart to disapprove until she was sure she had the job, at which time she could offer some tactful suggestions. So Carole was surprised when Celerie exclaimed, apparently genuinely impressed, “This is charming! Who designed it?”
“I did, with a little help from my daughter’s friend who’s studying design at RISD,” admitted Carole. “It was fun.”
“You did a great job,” declared Celerie. “Big spaces like this can be tricky. But you picked furniture that fits the space, and the colors are wonderful. You really have an eye.”
“Well, thanks,” said Carole, warming to the woman despite herself. Flattery was powerful stuff and hard to resist. “My big problem is the windows.”
“They’re sure big.” Celerie waved an arm at the huge expanse of glass that filled most of the exterior walls of the apartment. “The silver blinds are a good start.”
“They came with the place,” said Carole. “I don’t want to get rid of them; I just want to soften the look. Make it less industrial and more boho.”
Celerie was resting her chin in her hand, studying the situation. “What I wouldn’t give for windows like these,” she said. “Our apartment is so tiny, and the ceilings are quite low because we’re up in the attic.”
Carole saw an opportunity to steer the conversation in the direction she wanted to go, and she seized it. “But Prospect Place is wonderful, with all that amazing carved woodwork. We would have loved to live there.” She paused. “Maybe we’ll try again.”
“And leave this?” exclaimed Celerie, determined to get, and keep, the decorating job. “Frankly, I think this is much nicer. You’d be crazy to give it up.”
“I don’t know,” grumbled Carole. “Some of the people here aren’t quite as nice as you people over at Prospect Place. There’s a lot of kids, and they can be really noisy.”
“Well, that’s definitely not a problem at Prospect Place; it’s quiet as a tomb,” admitted Celerie. “Mark and I are the youngest, and we’re so exhausted from working all day and climbing all those stairs up to our tiny garret that we’re more interested in sleeping than partying.”
“Have you made friends with any of your neighbors? Like the Pooles?” asked Carole. “They seem terribly interesting.”
“I’m sure they are, but I don’t really know them. She asked me to help her with the kitchen redo, but she pretty much had it all figured out, just used me to get access to some European brands that aren’t generally available here.”
“What’s she like?” persisted Carole.
“Very French. Knows what she wants and gets it,” said Celerie, with a big sigh. “Very detail-oriented.”
“What about the professor?”
