Lipstick Jungle

There was no response. Wendy grabbed the back of his pajama top and pulled him up.

“Say please,” Tyler said calmly.

Wendy jiggled the toddler while trying to gauge Tyler’s mood. He was only six years old and she didn’t want to give in to him, but if it would get him into his room and get him dressed, it was worth the humiliation.

“Okay,” she sighed. “Please.”

“Please what?” Tyler said, confident of victory.

Wendy rolled her eyes. “Please go to your room and get ready for school.”

The boy’s face took on a crafty expression. “Pay me,” he said.

“What?” Wendy asked, open-mouthed.

“Pay me,” he said again, patronizingly, holding out his hand.

Wendy grimaced. “How much?” she asked.

“Five dol-lah.”

“Three.”

“Deal.” They shook hands and Tyler ran to his room, gleeful at having scored once more against his mother.

“Money,” the baby said. The baby was a she, seventeen months old, and, Wendy swore, her very first word was “money” as opposed to “mommy.” But what could you do?

“Money. That’s right sweetheart. Moh-ney. It’s a good thing,” Wendy said, marching into the bedroom. Like the rest of the loft, it was sparsely furnished with only the bare necessities, and yet still managed to exude an air of encroaching clutter. “Money is a good thing, isn’t that right, baby?” she said pointedly, fixing an evil eye on her husband, Shane, who was still lying in bed.

“Are you trying to tell me something?” Shane asked.

Oh God. She could tell by the tone in his voice that he was going to be grumpy again. She didn’t know how much more of him she could take. Ever since last Christmas, for practically the past year now, his mood had been fluctuating between oblivious and hostile, as if he had somehow become a hostage in his own life.

“Can you help me, babe?” she asked, her voice just bordering on annoyance. She ratcheted up the blind like a pirate running up a flag. She wanted to yell at him, but after twelve years of marriage, she knew that Shane didn’t respond well to female aggression—if she screamed, he would only become more obstinate.

Shane sat up, made a face, stretched his arms, and yawned oafishly. Despite the fact that he was being an asshole and she was pissed at him, Wendy felt a sickly sweet rush of love for him. Shane was just so good-looking and so sexy, and if she hadn’t been holding the baby, she probably would have tried to have sex with him. But she mustn’t reward him for his bad behavior with blow jobs. “Tyler is being a brat,” she said. “And I haven’t seen Magda . . .”

“She’s probably in her room, crying,” Shane said dismissively.

“And we’re all going to be late,” Wendy said.

“Where’s old Mrs. Wassername?”

“Mrs. Minniver,” Wendy said, correcting him. “I don’t know. I guess she’s late too. The weather’s shitty . . . Can you please take the baby? So I can at least take a shower?”

She thrust the baby at him. The baby grabbed onto his spiky, metrosexualized hair (Shane had had hair transplants seven years ago, which she’d paid for) and pulled gleefully, while Shane, equally gleeful, rubbed noses. Wendy paused, touched by the heartwarming spectacle of father and daughter—could there be a better father than Shane?—but the mood was immediately broken when Shane said, “You’re going to have to take the kids to school today. I’ve got a meeting.”

“What meeting?” Wendy asked incredulously. “A meeting at nine a.m.?”

“Nine-thirty. But it’s at the restaurant. So there’s no time to get from the school all the way across town.”

“Can’t you make it later?”

“No, Wendy,” he said, with faux patience, as if he’d explained this to her many times before. “It’s with the contractor. And the building inspector. Do you know how hard it is to get a meeting with those guys? But if you want me to change it, I will. And then it will be at least another two months before this restaurant opens. But what the hell, it’s your money.”

Oh God, she thought. Now he was going to sulk. “It’s our money, Shane,” she said gently. “I’ve told you that a million times. The money I make is for our family. For us. You and me.” If the situation were reversed, if he was the one who made all the money and she didn’t make a penny, she wouldn’t have wanted her husband holding it over her head and saying that all the money was his. She paused. “I just think . . . maybe you’re not happy doing this restaurant. Maybe you should go back to writing screenplays . . .”

This was like waving a red flag in front of a bull. “Fuck it, Wendy,” he snapped. “What do you want?”