Читать книгу Diary of a Married Call Girl - Tracy Quan - Страница 11

This afternoon, a pilgrimage to my sister-in-law’s shrinking Carnegie Hill condo. Her once-spacious two-bedroom has been completely transformed. As we entered, there was a whiff of baby powder in the air but no sign of the twins themselves. Or their father.

Elspeth held a finger to her lips, and told Matt, “Your niece and nephew are finally asleep. And so is Jason!”

She, however, was showing no signs of fatigue. She placed our present—still in its shopping bag—next to a box of disposable diapers.

“You went to Bambini! I love their clothes! But I’ll wait till Jason gets up before we open it.”

Two high chairs with gingham-covered seat pads stood next to the foyer closet. A Peg Pérego stroller built for two was blocking Matt’s access to the living room couch. I pushed the crowded vehicle cautiously to one side. The front unit was harboring a blanket covered with appliqu袠ducks and daisies. In the backseat, more baby presents, decorated with pink and white ribbon, were jumbled together, waiting to be opened. In the storage area below, I spotted a large diaper bag designed to match the gingham seat pads.

“This carriage is huge! How do you manage?” I asked.

“Oh, I had the mommy biceps before I was even pregnant,” Elspeth said. “I call it the baby Hummer,” she added proudly. “Want some herbal tea? Or”—she gestured toward the kitchen—“I could fix you a cappuccino with steamed breast milk.” Snickering at her younger brother’s discomfort, she changed the subject, sort of. “Yams are the culprit! Everybody’s eating yams twice a week for the betacarotene but you end up having twins because of all the plant estrogen. Well, Jason and I were planning on having two, anyway. Nancy, I want to show you something. This is right up your alley!”

She returned seconds later with a square box.

“I want Bridget and Berrigan to learn Spanish; Jason thinks they should be learning Japanese.” The box was decorated with words and numbers in various languages. “How’s your schoolwork going?”

I flinched inside. I haven’t actually attended a class yet, but I’ve been carrying around my French textbooks just to get Matt accustomed to my new alibi.

“Oh…kind of rusty,” I said hesitantly. “But I’m determined to make a go of it.”

“Nancy plays these tapes at night. I can’t understand a word.” I felt Matt’s arm on my waist. “She’s studying for the…DALF?”

“DELF. Eventually. Not yet. I have to get up to speed conversationally.”

“Well, they say that learning a language will increase a baby’s IQ. What are you working on these days?” Elspeth asked. “I’m still waiting to see the acupuncture book!”

“Oh that”—my voice trailed off—“was nothing but problems! I’m waiting, too.”

Elspeth thinks—or I hope she thinks—that I do some freelance copyediting. Last year, I convinced Matt, Elspeth, and my own family that I was toiling over an illustrated guide to acupuncture. Since there’s no hope of the book actually materializing, I’ve decided that the author is having a personal crisis that prevents him from finishing the final chapter.

“Well, my part of the project is done,” I told Elspeth. “And,” I said, with more conviction, “I feel like that part of my life is done. I’m ready to focus on something else. So I’m just working on my French. No distractions.”

When Matt and I met, he assumed—quite wrongly—that my family was paying my rent. I concocted a few slacker gigs to generate income for those extras that a moderately supported adult would have to buy for herself. It wouldn’t make sense to pretend I’m rich. (What if he tried to marry me for my money? The complications would be embarrassing for both of us. Not that Matt is the type who marries a girl for money. But still.)

Now that we’re married, I can’t fall back on freelance editing. He would surely expect to see me carrying around a manuscript from time to time. Poring over a stack of papers. So I announced a career transition and became, instead, a student at the French Institute on East Sixtieth Street, a student who aspires—one day in the future—to pass the DELF and become a translator.

Matt finds my fuzzy career plan quite plausible. For some reason, when Elspeth starts asking questions about it, I can feel the moisture rising on my skin.

“Matt and I were thinking…” Elspeth began.

Before I could stop myself, I flashed a nervous glance at my husband. I wish he would stop “conferencing” with Elspeth behind my back!

“Christopher’s coming to dinner next week—you know, the surprise I’m throwing for Jason.” Her voice dropped and she made a warning gesture in the direction of the master bedroom. “Let’s invite your friend Allison!”

“Allison?” I squeaked. “Why—um—why Allison?”

Matt and Elspeth looked surprised.

“Why not?” Matt said.

“Matt keeps telling me she’s single and great looking! And Chris is a catch,” Elspeth added. “Didn’t you meet him?”

I felt my throat drying up as I recalled my brief encounter with Chris at one of Elspeth’s parties. Before taking maternity leave, Elspeth was a prosecutor. When I met Chris, he had just started working with her in the Special Prosecutions Unit of the Manhattan DA’s office.

“Tall? Dirty blond hair?” Elspeth was saying. “He just bought a sailboat. Does Allison like to sail?”

Allison is indeed single—and better looking than most—but her eligibility for mating with Chris ends right there. Inviting her to Jason’s surprise birthday event would certainly have an impact—a disastrous one. For all kinds of reasons, I am determined that Allison must never come within five hundred feet of Elspeth and Jason’s apartment. And now that Allie has been promoted to media czar by the Council of Trollops, one thousand feet sounds even better.

“Allie,” I said, casting my inner net for answers, “is seeing someone.”

“Are they engaged?” Elspeth asked

“They just started dating but she—”

“That settles it. Don’t tell her about Chris. We’ll invite her and see what happens! There’s no pressure. If she’s not engaged to this guy and they just met?”

“Let the best man win,” Matt suggested. “I think we should invite her. What if they hit it off?”

“What does Allie do, anyway?”

“Do?” I repeated numbly.

Elspeth sat on the love seat, quizzing me with one eye trained on the passageway to her bedroom.

“She’s—uh—temping,” I said. “And thinking about getting a social work degree.”

Elspeth cocked her head to one side and gave me a wide-eyed look. Jason had appeared in the living room doorway, shortcircuiting any further discussion of the guest list. Or my best friend’s occupational history.

I’ve never been happier to see a man in my life!