Mama's Got a Brand New Job Page 6

  I knew he was busting on Nelson because he always busted on Nelson. Nelson was an irresistible target for Dale’s residual frat boy mischief. What surprised me was Nelson’s continued gullibility. He always seemed to fall for Dale’s predictable gags. And of all people, Nelson should have been able to identify such behavior—he was an Associate Professor of Anthropology at NYU.

  We all took a seat, and I took a menu. Osetra specialized in serving miniature versions of classic Russian and Eastern European fare, tapas style. Also available was a full caviar menu. Sadly, caviar was discouraged for pregnant women. Maybe there was something karmically wrong with eating the unfertilized eggs of another species while my own inseminated egg bloomed inside of me.

  Osetra also offered a wide array of vodka, spirits and Champagne. The bar was renowned for its specialty cocktails and between the four of us, we had tried them all.

  Paola spoke up first. “I know we have some toasting to do with regards to the little Pedersen that’s on the way . . . .” She smiled so infectiously that I found myself grinning happily too. “But first of all, I’d like to know how Maxine is surviving without her beloved vodka. Seriously, honey, I would have expected you to get a surrogate just so you wouldn’t have to give up the habit.”

  “Ha. Ha. Ha,” I acknowledged. “Mother Nature is awesome. I have no interest in drinking. Just the thought of it makes me ill.” It was true. Over the last few weeks, my stomach roiled at the thought of drinking even a sip of vodka. I amused myself by ordering virgin Seabreezes—cranberry and grapefruit juices, both of which were highly recommended by Dr. Patel.

  “Fine then,” said Paola. “Tell me what you think I should get.”

  I studied the menu. There would be no Sputnik, a drink that featured grain alcohol, a.k.a. moonshine, for me. Nor could I have the cocktail I had created after a work week from hell, the Gulag. The Gulag looked like blood in a Martini glass, which, to the trendy New York cocktail crowd, was something to embrace. By popular demand, the Osetra management had added the Gulag to their menu.

  Dale must have noticed me reminiscing because he said, “Well, I’m going to have a Gulag.”

  “Me, too,” copied Nelson.

  “What does it say about a person, Nelson, if he voluntarily orders a drink named after a miserable work prison?” asked Dale curiously.

  Nelson was happy to oblige that question with a long-winded answer. I studied the menu, knowing full well what Dale was up to. Half-way through his oration, Nelson realized that Dale had only asked the question so he could sneak a peek at his phone.

  Last New Year’s Eve, the four of us had made the regrettable pledge to not use our phones for an entire year when we went out together. At the time, under the influence of Champagne and revelry, it seemed like a great idea. Unfortunately, Nelson was now the only one of the group who still wanted to abide by the commitment, and he wasn’t going to let any of us renege.

  He leaned forward onto the table like he was studying a primate. Dale kept clacking. “And what does it say about a person, DALE,” he said loudly, “who utilizes the tools of deception to indulge a habit of rudeness and forfeit his end of a social contract?”

  Dale may have been the first at the table to break the rule, but Paola was hot on his trail. “Look!” I re-directed, “She’s doing it, too!”

  There she was, scrolling through her own device, all within inches of Nelson’s right elbow. “You’ve got to be kidding me, Paola!”

  “I’m sorry, but we are supposed to hear any time now whether we won this huge proposal I’ve been working on. It’s worth about $100 million!”

  A figure in the millions of dollars was mentioned. Dale’s Pavlovian response kicked in and he perked up immediately. “Is that 100 million in one year or over the span of years?”

  “It’s over five years,” Paola admitted. “But still, 20 million in revenue is great for the company.”

  Dale nodded in concurrence.

  “I should say so!” Nelson’s reaction was probably a mix of pride in his wife’s potential achievement and perplexity that such a huge sum of money could be thrown around while people were starving in America.

  The server approached to take our orders. Dale leaned his head back and said, pointing to himself and Nelson, “We’ll have two Gulags.”

  Paola was still absorbed with her device. “Now you’re driving me crazy,” I said. It was time for some cocktail warfare. I turned to the waitress and said, “You ready for this? I’m going to give you something new. She’ll have one part Absinthe, two parts ginger beer with some vodka and . . .” I thought for a moment about how to bring the flavors together. I needed something sweet, but not sugary. “. . . And a dash of grapefruit bitters. Have the bartender correct it.” The waitress nodded in compliance and headed off. It was fun being a regular at Osetra.

  “How did you come up with that?” asked Paola.

  Dale stepped in with an explanation. “Maxine has every wine and liquor app ever created. Seriously, if she were allowed to use her phone, Nelson, she could show you.”

  “Nope,” said Nelson, sounding superior. “I’ll just try the concoction when it gets here.”

  “O.K.,” said Paola. “What did you get me?”

  “I just made it up. Whatever it is should make an impact because Absinthe is supposed to make you crazy.”

  “They should call it the Nut Job,” offered Dale.

  “That doesn’t sound very Russian,” I said, although I had to laugh at the thought of ordering one.

  “Then how about the Chernobyl?” said Paola.

  Nelson rubbed his chin. “Interesting . . . . What about the Moscow Meltdown?”

  I ordered a bunch of plates while the rest of the group debated the name for the new cocktail. Once a consensus was reached—Chernobyl was the winner—a silence draped the table. Dale and Paola seemed handicapped without their phones. Despite the periodic buzzing, no one dared reach for their device—Nelson was hell-bent on enforcing the rules. The polite thing was talk about the baby.

  10

  “So Nelson,” said Dale. “Tell me the top three things I need to know about being a great dad.” And he meant it. Despite his habitual ribbing on Nelson, Dale actually respected the guy’s opinion.

  “Well, first and foremost,” began Nelson, “Never tell Maxine that she looks fat.”

  Paola almost fell off her stool. “Oh, my God! Never do that!”

  Did that mean that I was going to look fat? I felt fat. And I had barely started gaining weight. I looked desperately at Dale. “You don’t look fat,” he said.

  “Next,” continued Nelson, “This is a good one. Every now and then, surprise Maxine and take the baby out of the apartment so she can take a nap.” He leaned across the table towards Dale. “Major points for that one, believe me.”

  Paola smiled sweetly at Nelson and rubbed his hand. “Just because Amanda is almost a year old doesn’t mean that you can’t still surprise me, honey.”

  “Yes, well, the need was more acute right after you gave birth. Now, thankfully, we have help. Which brings me to my final, and maybe most important piece of advice: get as much help as you can from as many sources as possible. Turn no one down. Call in favors. Engage parents. With two people working, you guys are going to have your hands full.” Nelson squeezed Paola’s hand. “I don’t know what we’d do without your mother helping out.”

  I perked up, feeling that I might actually be ahead of the curve because of the research I had done about nanny agencies. “Did you guys use a nanny search agency? Have you heard of NYC Baby Prep?”

  “NYC Baby Prep?” asked Paola incredulously. “You mean NYC Wallet Dump? That place is expensive.”

  “Yeah, but have you seen what they provide? And you don’t have to buy the full service package.”

  Dale pulled out his phone. “What’s the place called?”

  “No, no, no,” warned Nelson. We agreed we weren’t using our phones.”

  “C’mon, Nelson
. This is different. Hell, I’m just trying to follow your advice.”

  Nelson conceded, while Dale mouthed the words to the agency as he typed the address. “I think you’ll be impressed, Dale,” I offered. “I already started filling out the application. We get a free consultation.”

  He was barely registering my comments. Dale scrolled through the website with one hand while taking a huge gulp of water with the other. Then he put the phone down, put his hand on his neck and gesticulated in his chair like he needed the Heimlich. Nelson perked up and then realized that Dale was kidding. Sort of. “Holy shit. You have got to be kidding me. This place is ridiculous.”

  “I can’t comment because I don’t have the prices yet to compare them to the other agencies.”

  “Newsflash: this place will drain our retirement fund.” Dale looked back down at the website and read, “’NYC Baby Prep Astrological Chart. Provide us with a small branch of your family tree and a few key dates, and we will leverage the heavens to read your baby’s future!’” He tossed the device on the table. “Give me a fucking break.”

  Mercifully, the server arrived with our food—teacups of Borscht, mini Chicken Kiev appetizers, a cucumber-dill salad. My eyes started watering. Instantly, I wondered if a pregnancy-induced hormonal imbalance had triggered my tear ducts to start working. But then my mouth and tongue gushed with water, and I started gagging. I grabbed a napkin and ran straight to the bathroom.

  Actually, I ran and walked. The stimulation of running seemed to bring up the contents of my stomach, but walking wasn’t going to get me there in time. I thought everything was under control when I got behind the door of the ladies’ room. However, the relief of being able to throw up in private seemed to encourage the act of reverse peristalsis.

  For the next few minutes, I learned just how well the Osetra janitorial staff cleaned the toilets. It was enough to make me puke.

  After my episode, I washed my hands and my mouth. There was no evidence of any vomit on my dress, which was fortuitous. I wiped off my face and proceeded back to the table as if nothing had happened.

  Dale got up and helped me to my stool. “Are you all right? Is this a pregnancy thing? I haven’t seen you throw up before.”

  Paola chimed in. “You haven’t mentioned any morning sickness.”

  “How can she have morning sickness when it’s nine o’clock at night?” asked Nelson.

  I settled back in. “I’m fine. No big deal. I thought nausea was supposed to happen in the first trimester, so it will probably just go away.” Still uncomfortable, I looked about the table for the problem. “That,” I said, pointing to the pickled cucumber salad, “has got to go, though.”

  Dale immediately whisked it away, dumping it onto the un-bussed table behind us. “By the way,” he said, “your phone has been buzzing like crazy. Maybe the battery is low or something. You should check it out.” Dale looked impishly at Nelson.

  “Permission to view the phone,” I said to Nelson in a robotic tone.

  “Permission granted. But just to turn it off.”

  I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw the screen. I had received a battery of emails and texts all on the same subject, “Re: Maxine Pedersen is expecting a baby!”

  “What the. . . ?” My voice dropped off as I tried to find the original message.

  “Holy shit!” said Dale, craning to read my phone. “What’s that about?”

  Nelson’s neck grew about two inches longer and he said, “O.K., O.K. I can see it’s not broken. Put it away.”

  When I saw the author of the initial message—the message that had generated everyone else’s responses—I almost threw up again. But I should have known. Nancy Lallyberry.

  Nancy had sent an email to the entire staff at McCale, Morgan & Black announcing my pregnancy. As an added bonus, she had entreated everyone on her list to email me so they could congratulate me personally.

  I was too flummoxed to read any of the responses from the continuous pinging of messages. And if my email was getting stuffed, then so was almost everyone else’s. The majority of the messages I received had been tagged “Reply All.” Anyone who received the original message was now also receiving congratulatory messages meant for me, but for some unknown reason, everyone else needed to read. The partners—Caine and Deirdre in particular—would be furious with the distractions. I hated “Reply All.” And I hated Nancy Lallyberry.

  Dale sat up and apprised Nelson of the goings-on. “It’s just a bunch of congratulatory emails for Maxine from everyone at work.” Then Dale asked me, “Did you send out an announcement right before we came here or something? Why are they all coming now?”

  I dropped my phone on the table and took a small sip of Dale’s Gulag. “No, I didn’t send anything out. That wench Nancy Lallyberry announced my pregnancy without my permission in an email to the entire office.”

  “You haven’t told your office yet?” asked Nelson. “Don’t you think everyone already knows at this point?”

  “Why are you on her side?!” I almost shouted. I desperately looked to Paola for support. Unbeknownst to the rest of us, she had taken the opportunity to check her own phone and was just placing it back into her purse. Her eyes were bulging as she tried to control herself. “What?!” I demanded.

  “Nothing . . . . It’s nothing.” She let out some of her breath but still looked like she was going to pop.

  Dale leaned onto the table. “You got that job, didn’t you? The $100 million contract, right?!”

  “Yes!” Paola pumped her hands in the air in an annoying raise-the-roof-type send-up. “We totally did! Can you believe it? I am so psyched!” And then she put her hands together and rambled off some stuff in Spanish.

  Ordinarily, I would have been very happy for her. I tried to smile enthusiastically. But having Nancy Lallyberry take control over my personal announcement had made my blood boil.

  Nelson, ultimately proud of his wife’s achievements, waved over the server. “Hey there! We need some Champagne to celebrate some exciting news. How about a bottle of Dom Pérignon?”

  “Absolutely! And congratulations!” The server looked at me when he said it. Immediately, I realized that he thought we were getting Champagne to celebrate my pregnancy.

  “Oh no!” I said, as he started away.

  “You don’t want any Champagne?” He looked crestfallen by the loss of his tip for bringing it over. Meanwhile, everyone else just looked annoyed at my lack of excitement for my friend’s incredible professional achievement.

  Pregnancy was not an excuse for cattiness, I thought. Nancy Lallyberry’s stupid antics shouldn’t ruin Paola’s moment. I carried on bravely. “I meant, no, we don’t want the Dom. Bring us something better. Do you have any Cristal?”

  11

  When I arrived at the office, Joy was already there. My trusted administrative helper had a huge basket of baby goodies on her desk, which she ceremoniously presented to me. The most striking thing about it was its size. Joy took the subway from Queens every day, and I couldn’t imagine her trucking this thing around Penn Station during rush hour. No wonder she had come in early.

  Inside the basket, which was covered with thick plastic wrap, was an array of unisex baby sundries. There were brands I had heard of—Johnson & Johnson, Carter’s—and then some words that were totally unfamiliar, like “layette.” I wasn’t sure what to make of everything that was in there, but the gesture was touching. Thank goodness I had given her a bottle of wine for her birthday last month.

  I put the gift on the credenza in my office. Joy shifted into professional mode and reported, “The Parfum Aix meeting will be upstairs in Conference Room B.”

  “Right. I’m headed up there right now.” I looked at my watch, noting that I had about two minutes to get to the meeting before Caine would start it punctually at nine. Nonetheless, I had to duck into the bathroom beforehand, so I grabbed my meeting items and took care of business.

  I charged out of the ladies room and collided wi
th Jacques’s replacement, Vivienne Suivant. Unfazed, she just stepped back to allow me some room. Then she smiled, her grin unfurling in a controlled, almost theatrical movement. As we greeted each other, I couldn’t resist admiring her outfit. She was fantastically chic.

  On top, she was wearing a black chiffon blouse. Ruffles along the bateau neckline gave way to a delicate, but striking, pavé diamond and emerald necklace. The translucent three-quarter sleeves of the blouse revealed a solid gold Cartier Tank watch on one hand and what had to be at least a 20 carat, emerald cocktail ring on the other. The flowing chiffon of her blouse was counterbalanced by her tailored black leather pants. With the aid of her three-inch black leather boots, she almost met me eye to eye.

  My nose started to twitch. I scratched it, which had to have been a no-no in Vivienne’s code of grace and beauty. “How are you, Vivienne?” I asked, as I started walking towards the conference room. “Has Jacques kept you busy?”

  She started to respond, and I stopped walking. I had horrible indigestion, and the pressure of the baby made me feel like someone had opened up an agitated can of Coke in my intestines.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “Yes, I’m fine,” I reassured her, my mouth starting to water. “It’s just the baby.”

  Vivienne’s eyes lit up, and she put her hands close to her face. Not close enough to smear her make-up, but close enough to be demonstrative. “Oh! You’re going to have a baby! How exciting!” Her face also showed some signs of relief as the pregnancy was obviously the explanation for my dowdy outfit.

  Caine stuck his head out of the conference room. His gaze was like a magnet, sucking us into the meeting. I sat down at the table, dizzy and disoriented. Vivienne took a seat next to me, thereby engulfing me into her cloud of perfume. The back of my blouse was stuck to my skin, so I leaned over in my chair in a futile attempt to circulate air around my body. She asked me again, “Are you all right?”