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Thank goodness I’m focused and prepared, or Marta’s cynical smile would completely undo me. But I am prepared. I’ve put together binders with pertinent info for the new room parents, and I swiftly cover the auction goals and the room moms’ responsibilities.
“Our fund-raiser is significant,” I continue, “and the children’s class projects are one of our biggest ticket items, too. Parents actively bid on them, which leads to bidding wars, resulting in even more money for the school.”
I take a breath and glance around, checking to see if there are questions. There are none, so I press on. “If you aren’t familiar with our annual auction, we do the traditional ‘turn the auction into a party’ event, with great food and drink—with emphasis on drink as alcohol—playing a huge part in creating the right environment for active bidding—”
“How do you put an emphasis on alcohol?”
It’s Marta who has interrupted me, and I sit a moment, loathing her for having to make yet one more meeting confrontational. “I’m not sure I understand your question.”
She smiles with excessive politeness. “It’s a school event, and yet you’re pushing alcohol?”
I take in her mocking expression and smile back, every bit as polite. “We’re not pushing alcohol, we serve it, offering free cocktails when the guests first arrive during the silent auction hour and then switching to a cash bar once dinner begins.” My gaze meets hers and holds. “We want multiple bids on items, and if alcohol helps ‘juice’ the competitive nature of our moms and dads, more power to the bartender.”
I pause, stare at her, challenging her. If she wants to have another go at me, now is her chance. But she doesn’t say anything. I smile faintly. Taylor Young, five points. Marta Zinsser, none.
With the Monday committee meeting behind me, I’ve now got to get serious about finishing the book before tomorrow night’s book club meeting. But instead of reading The Glass Castle, I curl up in the chaise in my bedroom to pore over W magazine.
If I could, I’d be like one of the gorgeous golden girls featured in W. A New York or London It girl, one of those with long sleek hair and endless legs who wear fitted slacks and slim jeans paired with Manolo Blahniks or Jimmy Choos. I want the effortless grace of Tory Burch, Brooke de Ocampo, Cosima Pavoncelli. I want effortless grace. I want control.
I have no control.
Disgusted with myself, I drop W and reach for the newest issue of O, the Oprah Magazine. I always feel guilty for reading W, Town & Country, and Vanity Fair. I never feel guilty reading Oprah, though. Oprah’s good for me. Oprah’s determined to save women. Not from men, but from ourselves.
But after I’ve spent ten minutes leafing through O, my conscience gets to me again.
I’m supposed to be finishing the book. I have to read the book. Dammit.
One day later I’m still in my room, struggling to finish the novel and prepare for hosting the group.
Who would have ever thought that book club would be stressful? When I joined two years ago, I’d imagined interesting conversations among relaxed friends. Instead, book club freaks me out. It’s not enough to read the book. I’ve got to get online and research what all the critics are saying, including positive and negative consumer reviews. I need not just the Amazon reviews, but those from the Seattle Times, the Los Angeles Times, and the San Francisco Chronicle.
I don’t even like most of the books we pick. They’re dark and sometimes so damn boring that I can barely plow my way through the paragraphs.
Every now and then, I just wish we could read something fun. A Jennifer Weiner novel. Jane Green.
Nancy Drew.
I pick up the book with its murky vintage photograph cover. It’s the newest big hit. It’s being read by everyone, and of course there is terrible suffering and loss. A book club book wouldn’t be a book club pick if it wasn’t achingly poignant or heartrendingly bittersweet.
I toss the book back down and head to my closet, feeling crabby all the way to my bones. I’m just so damn tired of trying so hard. So damn tired of trying to keep it all together—not just me, but Nathan and the girls, too.
Nathan’s home early, and he’s promised to take the girls out so we can have the house to ourselves for the book group tonight.
“What’s wrong, honey?” he asks, catching sight of me standing motionless in our walk-in closet.
“I don’t know what to wear.” I’m wearing just a bra and thong as I face the rows and rows of clothes. “Nothing I ever wear is right, either.”
“Taylor, you’re always impeccably put together.”
“And it’s so much work. I’m sick of it.”
“Don’t let your book club do this to you. It’s supposed to be fun.”
“Monica says I never read the book.”
“Do you read the book?”
“Yes! Maybe once in the entire last year I didn’t finish it, but I still participated. I still did the research. I tried.”
“So don’t let her upset you. Monica’s in competition with you. She has been ever since you first met.”
He’s right, but it’s small comfort when Monica will be holding court in my living room in less than an hour.
I reach for Roberto Cavalli animal-print jeans and his silky black fitted blouse. With the right shoes and my hair drawn back into a smooth ponytail low on my nape, I hope I’ll strike the appropriate note for discussing yet another tortured, dysfunctional American family where dad drinks too much and mom takes to bed and no one protects the children.
“God, Taylor, you always look so amazing,” Suze exclaims as I greet her at the door sixty-some minutes later.
I kiss cheek-cheek with Suze and then Jen, who have arrived together. They’re Medina moms, not that that’s such a big deal, but last year when we had the whole kindergarten fiasco, quite a few of the Points moms weren’t talking to the Lakes moms. Fortunately, everyone’s moved on to other things, and the kindergartners in question survived and are now happily well-adjusted first graders.
Nathan and the girls haven’t left yet, so Nathan’s uncorking wine and pouring drinks. After Jen and Suze, Ellen arrives. Ellen is an Atlanta transplant who lived in New York before the South and brings her East Coast edge with her.
After Ellen, it’s Patti, Raine, and then Monica close behind. Kate and Lucy also show up at the same time, and I wonder if they’ve driven here together. Lucy looks as though she’s been crying, and Kate keeps her close at her side. Two more women arrive—prospective members?—and they’re talking animatedly as they drop their purses and books on chairs and then head for the appetizers and wine.
I’m in charge of the main course, Jen has appetizers, Patti dessert, and Kate has wine.
The appetizers are a tad ethnic for my taste. I was raised on the best of the 1950 cookbook—hot crab dip, artichoke-and-spinach dip, chilled shrimp and cocktail sauce—but Jen has brought Thai spring rolls and other vegetarian dishes.
“What are we drinking?” one of the women asks, dipping a spring roll in sauce.
“Pinot Gris, Columbia Valley, Château Ste. Michelle,” Kate answers, flashing the bottle’s label. “Bill and I have really been into this wine this summer. This and rosé—”
“Rosé?” Monica repeats, scandalized.
“It’s making a comeback,” Kate answers calmly, filling another glass. “Rosé is really hot right now.”
“I can’t see Bill drinking rosé,” Monica protests.
“You’re thinking of those Gallo jugs you used to buy in your twenties. But rosé’s gone upscale. It’s a perfect wine for the summer.”
“I like Muscat for summer entertaining,” adds Raine, reaching for one of the tomato slices. “Or a late harvest Riesling.”
“Gewürztraminer if you’re serving Indian food,” Monica answers, jumping right back into the middle of the discussion. Monica can’t stand being less than an authority on everything.
God, I wish I liked her better.
“Suze, wine?” Kate asks
, lifting the bottle.
“No. Can’t.” Tall, blond, gorgeous Suze grimaces. “I’m in the middle of a detox cleansing. Just water and green tea for the next forty-eight hours.”
“You’re kidding.” Ellen stares at Suze agog. “Just water and green tea?”
“There are some natural herbal supplements, too. And then on the last day you get a series of colonic treatments. Positively life changing.”
“What is it supposed to do?” Lucy asks uneasily.
“Recharges your metabolism and makes your skin look and feel fantastic. Afterwards I just glow.”
Monica nods. “I’ve read about them quite a bit but didn’t know anyone who actually did them.”
“Oh yes, there are quite a few of us in the area who do the detox and colonic cleansings. But it’s not something you talk about at parties, if you know what I mean.”
I do. I’m disgusted. As much as I wrestle with my weight and body image, I can’t imagine having anyone squirt anything up my backside.
“Why don’t we move into the living room?” I suggest, ready for a change of subject.
Unfortunately, the self-improvement topic follows us to the couches and chairs, but Monica finally wrestles the book into the conversation and for the next hour holds court on agonizingly boring literary comparisons and useless literary theories.
Finally, the book has been discussed as much as it can be by women who have consumed numerous glasses of wine.
Now it’s the tricky part of book club: scheduling the next month’s meeting. Once upon a time we had a fixed schedule, but that proved impossible with the crazy demands on us.
