Read Online Mrs. Perfect by Jane Porter - Free Book Online

left.
    My insides squirm as she licks every crumb off the napkin with a moistened fingertip and then every crumb from her improvised knife and then a few off the table itself.
    I want to tell her to just eat the other half of cake.
    I want to tell her that it’s okay to eat a slice of pound cake at one sitting, but who am I to tell her anything? Until recently, I still kept a journal where I wrote down every morsel—every calorie—that passed between my lips.
    The front doors open. The first of the room moms have arrived.
    The doors open again, and there she is. Marta Zinsser. Her long dark hair is loose, and she’s wearing black jeans, biker boots, and a gauzy orange smock that reaches her thighs. Of course. Why would Marta attend a parent meeting in anything else?
    It takes everyone a few minutes to settle with their coffees and teas at the tables, and I do my best to ignore Marta, who has taken a seat almost directly across from me, which puts her in my line of vision no matter where I look.
    Thank goodness I’m focused and prepared, or Marta’s cynical smile would completely undo me. But I am prepared. I’ve put together binders with pertinent info for the new room parents, and I swiftly cover the auction goals and the room moms’ responsibilities.
    “Our fund-raiser is significant,” I continue, “and the children’s class projects are one of our biggest ticket items, too. Parents actively bid on them, which leads to bidding wars, resulting in even more money for the school.”
    I take a breath and glance around, checking to see if there are questions. There are none, so I press on. “If you aren’t familiar with our annual auction, we do the traditional ‘turn the auction into a party’ event, with great food and drink—with emphasis on drink as alcohol—playing a huge part in creating the right environment for active bidding—”
    “How do you put an emphasis on alcohol?”
    It’s Marta who has interrupted me, and I sit a moment, loathing her for having to make yet one more meeting confrontational. “I’m not sure I understand your question.”
    She smiles with excessive politeness. “It’s a school event, and yet you’re pushing alcohol?”
    I take in her mocking expression and smile back, every bit as polite. “We’re not
pushing
alcohol, we serve it, offering free cocktails when the guests first arrive during the silent auction hour and then switching to a cash bar once dinner begins.” My gaze meets hers and holds. “We want multiple bids on items, and if alcohol helps ‘juice’ the competitive nature of our moms and dads, more power to the bartender.”
    I pause, stare at her, challenging her. If she wants to have another go at me, now is her chance. But she doesn’t say anything. I smile faintly. Taylor Young, five points. Marta Zinsser, none.
    With the Monday committee meeting behind me, I’ve now got to get serious about finishing the book before tomorrow night’s book club meeting. But instead of reading
The Glass Castle,
I curl up in the chaise in my bedroom to pore over
W
magazine.
    If I could, I’d be like one of the gorgeous golden girls featured in
W
. A New York or London It girl, one of those with long sleek hair and endless legs who wear fitted slacks and slim jeans paired with Manolo Blahniks or Jimmy Choos. I want the effortless grace of Tory Burch, Brooke de Ocampo, Cosima Pavoncelli. I want effortless grace. I want control.
    I have no control.
    Disgusted with myself, I drop
W
and reach for the newest issue of
O, the Oprah Magazine
. I always feel guilty for reading
W, Town & Country
, and
Vanity Fair
. I never feel guilty reading Oprah, though. Oprah’s good for me. Oprah’s determined to save women. Not from men, but from ourselves.
    But after I’ve spent ten minutes leafing through
O,
my conscience gets to me again.
    I’m supposed to be finishing the book. I have to read the book. Dammit.
    One day later I’m still in my room, struggling to finish the novel