Mrs. Perfect

I thought it was a fast, cheap weight control technique. I had no idea it would become the new center of my universe.

In the meantime, Nathan and I began to see a lot more of each other. He was my best friend Lindy’s big brother at the fraternity, and he’d drop by the Pi Phi house to see Lindy and then, according to Lindy, ask about me.

The next Lambda Chi party was the autumn formal, which was essentially a prom for the university Greek crowd, and Nathan, USC second-string quarterback, asked me to be his date.

I was over the moon. So nervous. So worried about what I’d wear. Lindy and I went shopping for a new dress for the formal, but nothing seemed right. In the end, I bought a vintage Dior cocktail dress. It cost less than a new dress. In the black sheath, I felt very sophisticated and nothing like Tammy Jones.

Nathan and I danced all night, slow dancing even to the fast songs, and by the end of the evening, I was head over heels in love.

I’ve been in love with Nathan ever since.

Instead of driving straight to Points Elementary, I stop in at the Starbucks on 8th Street across from the mall. I don’t know why I chose this location. It’s always so busy in the morning, and as usual, the line stretches to the door. But I wait my turn, trying to ignore my growling stomach, telling myself that a coffee is sufficient even as I eye the other women in line to see who is slimmer.

No one. Good. Yet I feel so empty today, empty and hungry, but I sternly remind myself that being hungry has benefits. Being hungry means I can keep my figure.

Yet what is the point of keeping my figure if I can’t keep my husband?

Nathan has been distant lately, and he has traveled to odd cities, cities that seem awfully far off the McKee radar. But what do I know about McKee business? The McKees are mavericks, billionaires who do business out of the box.

The line moves, and I reach the long glass case of bakery goods. The cookies, rolls, and cakes tease me, tempt me. Maybe I could eat a low-fat crumb coffee cake without doing too much harm. The problem is, I don’t want a low-fat crumb cake. I want the enormous chewy molasses cookies or the chocolate mint frosted brownies. I want dark fudge brownies with dark fudge icing.

“What can I get for you?” the barista asks me.

“Short skim, no foam double latte,” I answer.

“Anything to go with that?”

“No.” Thank God I still have a little control.

I’m in the office after lunch duty ends, grateful I wore flats today after the past hour and a half on my feet. Now I’m in the copy room, where we’re copying and collating Friday’s school bulletin, which all the kids take home in their Friday folders. Fortunately, I don’t have to tackle the daunting task alone. Kathleen and Lori are also in the copy room with me, and having worked with both of them before, I at least feel like I’m among friends.

“Did you see that article in this morning’s paper? The one on the value of stay-at-home moms?” Kathleen asks as she fills the copier with lime green paper. “According to recent studies, stay-at-home moms are worth close to a hundred and fifty thousand dollars a year.”

Kathleen has just one child, a son named Michael, who was in first grade with Brooke last year. Kathleen apparently used to have a mucky-muck job until her son was born and has been a stay-at-home mom since. I’ve always gotten the feeling she’s not entirely happy being home.

“If stay-at-home moms were paid,” Lori retorts, grimacing. “And if we were paid for all we do, I wouldn’t have to work. But that’s not the case.” Lori has three kids, three restaurant locations, and a brand-new “counter” in the Microsoft campus cafeteria. Her daughter, Jill, is Jemma’s age. She also has a son named Mike, but he’s still just a preschooler.

“Either way we’re seriously undervalued,” Kathleen continues, punching in the number of copies needed. “According to the study, working moms are putting in forty-four hours a week on their career job and 49.8 hours a week on their ‘work’ at home, while the stay-at-home moms clock 91.6 hours. Nearly two more hours of work a week.”

“Is this another study the media is turning into the ‘mommy wars’?” Lori asks, opening the ream of red paper that we’ll use next. “Because I find these studies highly suspect. Working moms often do everything stay-at-home moms do. It just means we’ve got to juggle two or three things at one time. Folding laundry while we book our business travel. Help with homework via the phone while we commute.”

Kathleen stiffens. “I’m not criticizing working moms, I’m just sharing the results of the study, and according to the study, stay-at-home moms are undervalued and underappreciated.”

“In that case, I think all moms are undervalued and underappreciated,” Alice Dunlop, the school secretary, interjects as she enters the copy room to give us another page to be copied for the newsletter.

My phone vibrates in my purse, and checking the number, I see it’s Nathan. I leave the copy room to take the call in the quiet outside.

“Good morning,” I greet him, gently closing the front office door behind me, my insides suddenly all rumbly as I remember Tori’s question this morning about the meaning of an affair. “Long time no talk.”

“I know. I’m sorry. It’s been extremely hectic.”

“Things not going well?”

“No, things are going extremely well, but it’s one meeting after another, and by the time I get a free moment, you’re either in a meeting or still sleeping.”

“The time difference is hard,” I agree, wanting to believe him, wanting to believe that everything is as good as it’s always been. Nathan and I are solid. We’re the perfect couple. Everyone knows that. Even I know that. “So we’ll see you late tonight?”

“That’s why I’m calling. It doesn’t look like I can wrap everything up by tonight. In fact, I don’t think I’ll be home until Friday—”

“That’s two more days!”

“Honey, it’s not by choice.”

I picture him in bed with a sultry brunette, a gorgeous Salma Hayek–type seductress. My fingers ball into a fist. My stomach aches. “We miss you,” I say huskily.

“I miss you, too, darling. I’ll call tonight, once the girls are home from school. Okay?”

“Okay.” Hanging up, I stand there for a moment, phone clutched in my hand, my insides on fire. For a moment, I swing wildly from despair to calm to despair again.

I’m still standing frozen, lost in the horrific fantasies of Nathan making love to a luscious, passionate woman I can’t even compete with, when the office door opens and a little girl bounds out.

“Hello, Mrs. Young.”

Shaking away the pictures, I turn to see Eva Zinsser standing in front of me, smiling her shy smile. I force a smile. “Hello, Eva.”

“I like the fringe on your jacket,” she says. “And the buttons, too.”

“Thank you.”

She’s still studying me. “Is it a designer jacket?”

She’s such a strange thing, so serious that it always unnerves me a little. “Yes, i

t is.”

Her gaze sharpens. “Is it Chanel?”

“Yes, it is.” I’m astounded. Not even my daughters would know such a thing. “How did you guess?”

She shrugs. “I like fashion, and it has the Chanel details. The buttons. The fabric.”

I want to remind her she’s just a fifth grader—she’s not supposed to know such things—but Eva’s suddenly being called.

We both turn and spot Marta, Eva’s mother, approaching. “Eva, we’re late,” Marta calls. “We have to hurry.”

Marta, unlike her daughter, knows nothing about fashion, dressed in her usual antiestablishment wardrobe of camo pants and a long white men’s workshirt. Her black hair is loose. She wears taupe flip-flops. She’s not hippie as much as f-you. It’s the f-you part that drives me nuts. How can she get away with it? Why doesn’t she care more?

Eva takes her mother’s hand. “Mom, Mrs. Taylor’s jacket is Chanel. Isn’t it beautiful?”

A mocking expression crosses Marta’s features as she turns to look at me. Her gaze coolly sweeps over me. “Yes, it is beautiful.”

I stiffen. I can’t help it. Marta has that effect on me. But I force a saccharine smile. “Nice to see you, Marta.”

Marta sees through my smile. Her eyes glint back at me. “Nice to see you, too, Taylor. Things going well?”

“Fantastic.”

“Wonderful.”

We stand and smile at each other, even as I think, I hate her, I hate her, I hate her. “We’ll have another auction meeting soon,” I say.

“I can’t wait,” Marta answers. And with one last condescending smile, she walks into the office with Eva to sign her out of school.