What did her husband do in the city? (Investment banking.) Golf or beach club? (Golf first—Apawamis, of course—and a beach club later, or even a place for a boat.) How many children did she hope for? (Three, maybe four.) And lastly, whirling her around to face the mirror, what did she think of the new Nan Wilkerson ?
Nan put her hand over her mouth. It had taken over an hour, but Claude had transformed her into a different person. The sort of person she guessed she was now, a rich man's wife.
“Now get rid of the tennis tan,” said Claude, lifting the sleeve of her T-shirt and exposing the pale skin underneath. “Get a bikini, and some brighter lipstick, cheri.”
Nan was a bit miffed, but knew he meant well. In fact, after buying groceries and gin, she stopped in Village Pharmacy and picked out a slim Revlon tube: Hot Coral.
“Whoa,” said Fred, when he arrived home that evening. “Who the hell are you, and what did you do with my wife?”
Nan smiled weakly. “Do you like it?”
“I don't know,” said Fred, “and that's the honest truth.”
“Well, let me know when you decide,” said Nan, in a playful tone.
“Sure will,” said Fred, making his way to the bar. “You get more gin?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Nan.
“There she is!” said Fred, as Lola, then a wild toddler with strawberry blond curls, came running toward him. But he continued fixing his drink, not bending to pick her up, though she stood with her arms extended, waiting.
It took the Wilkersons two years to get into the Apawamis Club, five more to become Golf Members. Nan worked her way up the Tennis Ladder, and made friends. She became accustomed to days of tennis and poolside lunches, then evenings in the Clubhouse. They moved from Dogwood Lane to a bigger house on Manursing Way. Fred, who had seemed so thrillingly complex and confusing when they were dating— he'd first kissed her in a darkened movie theater during a French film festival, Jacques Demy's Lola on the screen— grew fat and angry. He spent weekends drinking wine from a coffee mug and piloting his expensive sit-on-top lawn mower that maybe reminded him of his farm boy past, who knew.
But honestly, what were her options, and dwelling on it certainly didn't help matters. Dancing and cocktailing comforted her during Fred's moods and the three miscarriages. Fred was on a business trip when she lost the last baby, and he responded to her hysterical call by telling her that his meeting was crucial and he would see her at the end of the week. It was hard on him, too, Nan knew—an unhappy only child, Fred had always wanted a house full of children.
One night, when Lola was twelve, Fred didn't return from the city. Six o'clock came and went. Nan had an appointment with Claude that evening. He had recently left Secrets to start his own salon, Claude's. Getting an appointment was nearly impossible; Nan had been waiting for weeks. “Where the heck is your father?” she said, pacing around the new kitchen, peeking out the sliding glass doors for a glimpse of his BMW. Lola glared steadily at her mother.
“You know, honey,” said Nan, “I bet Claude could make your hair a touch less …”
“A touch less what?” said Lola, her voice dripping with displaced anger. She had been spraying hydrogen peroxide on her hair as she sunbathed, but instead of turning lighter, her hair had become a discomfiting orange. And the neon-colored nets she tied around her head like that singer, Madonna … It was hard to know where to start.
“Skip it,” said Nan.
“I can stay by myself, Mom,” said Lola. “It's not like I'm going to have a keg party or anything.”
“Well, and your father should be home any minute,” said Nan.
“My father,” said Lola, and then she made a dismissive hah .
Nan picked up her car keys and slipped them in the pocket of her pedal pushers. “I'll be back in two hours,” she said. “We can have microwave ribs.”
“I'm fine,” said Lola.
Nan
Nan put her hand over her mouth. It had taken over an hour, but Claude had transformed her into a different person. The sort of person she guessed she was now, a rich man's wife.
“Now get rid of the tennis tan,” said Claude, lifting the sleeve of her T-shirt and exposing the pale skin underneath. “Get a bikini, and some brighter lipstick, cheri.”
Nan was a bit miffed, but knew he meant well. In fact, after buying groceries and gin, she stopped in Village Pharmacy and picked out a slim Revlon tube: Hot Coral.
“Whoa,” said Fred, when he arrived home that evening. “Who the hell are you, and what did you do with my wife?”
Nan smiled weakly. “Do you like it?”
“I don't know,” said Fred, “and that's the honest truth.”
“Well, let me know when you decide,” said Nan, in a playful tone.
“Sure will,” said Fred, making his way to the bar. “You get more gin?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Nan.
“There she is!” said Fred, as Lola, then a wild toddler with strawberry blond curls, came running toward him. But he continued fixing his drink, not bending to pick her up, though she stood with her arms extended, waiting.
It took the Wilkersons two years to get into the Apawamis Club, five more to become Golf Members. Nan worked her way up the Tennis Ladder, and made friends. She became accustomed to days of tennis and poolside lunches, then evenings in the Clubhouse. They moved from Dogwood Lane to a bigger house on Manursing Way. Fred, who had seemed so thrillingly complex and confusing when they were dating— he'd first kissed her in a darkened movie theater during a French film festival, Jacques Demy's Lola on the screen— grew fat and angry. He spent weekends drinking wine from a coffee mug and piloting his expensive sit-on-top lawn mower that maybe reminded him of his farm boy past, who knew.
But honestly, what were her options, and dwelling on it certainly didn't help matters. Dancing and cocktailing comforted her during Fred's moods and the three miscarriages. Fred was on a business trip when she lost the last baby, and he responded to her hysterical call by telling her that his meeting was crucial and he would see her at the end of the week. It was hard on him, too, Nan knew—an unhappy only child, Fred had always wanted a house full of children.
One night, when Lola was twelve, Fred didn't return from the city. Six o'clock came and went. Nan had an appointment with Claude that evening. He had recently left Secrets to start his own salon, Claude's. Getting an appointment was nearly impossible; Nan had been waiting for weeks. “Where the heck is your father?” she said, pacing around the new kitchen, peeking out the sliding glass doors for a glimpse of his BMW. Lola glared steadily at her mother.
“You know, honey,” said Nan, “I bet Claude could make your hair a touch less …”
“A touch less what?” said Lola, her voice dripping with displaced anger. She had been spraying hydrogen peroxide on her hair as she sunbathed, but instead of turning lighter, her hair had become a discomfiting orange. And the neon-colored nets she tied around her head like that singer, Madonna … It was hard to know where to start.
“Skip it,” said Nan.
“I can stay by myself, Mom,” said Lola. “It's not like I'm going to have a keg party or anything.”
“Well, and your father should be home any minute,” said Nan.
“My father,” said Lola, and then she made a dismissive hah .
Nan picked up her car keys and slipped them in the pocket of her pedal pushers. “I'll be back in two hours,” she said. “We can have microwave ribs.”
“I'm fine,” said Lola.
Nan
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