The Paper Palace(69)

“Some friend of hers from law school called. She went rushing out.”

“Sorry,” I say to Peter. “I really wanted her to be here when you arrived.”

Mum pulls a silver shaker and three martini glasses out of the freezer. “Olive or twist?”

“Twist, thanks,” Peter says.

“A man after my own heart.” She pours him a drink.

There’s cheese, paté, and a small bowl of cornichons on the kitchen table. She has brought out the special rosewood cheese board with the irritating little curvy knife that she and my father were given, a million years ago, as a wedding present.

She raises her glass. “Here’s to a new year. It’s so good to finally put a face with a name. You never told me he was so handsome, Elle.” She is practically batting her eyes. “Chin-chin.”

I feel like I’ve stepped into one of those black-and-white society movies where everyone lives in an apartment with fifteen-foot ceilings and wears fur stoles to lunch. Any second now, Cyd Charisse will stick a black-stockinged leg out from behind a door, while a maid in uniform serves canapés and a little white dog scampers about.

They clink glasses. I raise my glass to toast, but they are already drinking. My mother takes Peter’s arm. “Let’s go sit in the living room. I’ve made a fire. Elle, grab the hors d’oeuvres. I got a piece of Stilton at Zabar’s. I figured that was a safe bet.”

Peter follows her out, leaving me standing there with my glass in my hand.

“Oh, and your father called. Twice,” she says over her shoulder. “You’re going to have to call him back sometime. It’s so nice to have a man in the house, Peter,” I hear her saying as they disappear into the other room.

I know all her efforts—Peter’s warm welcome—are meant for me. And the last thing I want is Peter’s first instinct to be “Escape from Horror Castle.” But listening to my mother howling with laughter at something Peter has just said, all I want to do is slap her.



* * *



—

“I like her,” Peter says later as he drags his duffel down the hallway to my room. “She’s not at all how you described her.”

“A narcissistic bitch?”

“What you said was that she’s been very sad. And she likes to conserve energy. You never mentioned what an attractive woman she is.”

“Stilton? Because you’re English? We’ve been living on saltines and peanut butter and soup out of a can since Christmas. Believe me, this is not normal life.”

“So, just my British charm?”

“No. She’s a male chauvinist pig. Also, she asked me to take my underpants off in front of her on Christmas Eve. And gave me ugly gloves and a bottle opener for Christmas. So, it might be Yuletide guilt.”

Peter stops to scan the bookshelves that line the hall. Pulls out an old grade-school textbook of mine. “Caribou and the Alaskan Tundra. Perfect bedtime reading.” He opens it and riffles through. “Oh good. You’ve underlined the important bits. That’ll save me time.”

“My mother doesn’t believe in throwing away books.”

He shoves the book back onto the crammed shelf. “I think she’s very glamorous. Elegant. I’m surprised she hasn’t remarried.”

“You’re welcome to sleep in her room tonight. Her bed is bigger than mine.”

“Now, now.”

“I finally bring a man home to meet my mother and her first instinct is to flirt? What does that even mean? My mother has barely had the energy to wash her hair the past few years. Between losing Leo, and losing the baby. She’s been wandering around the house in a defeated trance for so long, I forgot she was ever attractive. She spends most of the day in her nightgown. The only reason my mother bothers to get dressed is to go across the street to Gristedes for whatever meat is on sale because it’s reached its sell-by date.”

“Sounds like she lives life on the edge.” Peter laughs.

“Don’t,” I say, and walk away down the hall.

He follows me into my room and tries to put his arms around me, but I shrug him off.

“Elle, I’ve just flown across the Atlantic, in a raging storm, to see my beautiful girlfriend. Who, for the record, I am sickeningly, utterly in love with. I’m exhausted. All I’ve eaten in the past twelve hours is a piece of moldy cheese. And my socks are wet.” He sits down on my bed and pulls me onto his lap. “Be nice.”

“Ugh. You’re right.” I burrow my head into his chest. “I should be glad you’ve cheered her up. I am glad. It’s just been a shitty few days. And I missed you.”

“I know. That’s why I’m here.” He lies down on my ancient twin bed. His feet stick out two feet off the bottom. “Hmm,” he says, “I may need to sleep in your mother’s bed after all.”

“I fucking hate you, Pete.”

“I know. All the women do. That’s my particular charm.”

And I laugh, despite myself.





1990. January 1, New York.


New Year’s Day, and if today is anything to go by, this will be a truly shitty year. It’s below freezing, I’m sick to my stomach after our annual family dim sum at a loud, overheated restaurant in Chinatown, where I ate ten too many steamed meat-ish things I didn’t even want, and my mother got into an argument with the waiter over the check. Now Peter is pressuring me to return my father’s calls.