Read Online The Best Laid Plans by Lynn Schnurnberger - Free Book Online
Authors: Lynn Schnurnberger
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don’t make such a dramatic entrance.”
“I’m known for my entrances.” She giggles flirtatiously.
“Mrs. Newman, meet our newest tenant, Ms. Glass. Ms. Glass bought the three MBA, EIK, CVAC, FISBO with BLT BC on the third floor,” Terrance says. Which, to those who don’t speak the one language common to all New Yorkers—real estate—is a three-bedroom, master suite with bath, eat-in kitchen, central-vacuum equipped, for-sale-by-owner apartment with built-in bookcases.
“Yes, yes I did. But call me Tiffany,” she says, still locking eyes on my muscular doorman.
“Tiffany, Tiffany Glass?” I chuckle congenially. “I bet a lot of people ask you about your name. I know a little bit about that myself. I’m Truman Newman.”
“Well, how about that?” Tiffany blinks.
Terrance tells the driver to take the truck around to the side entrance. “And Mrs. N, I want you to pay attention to where you’re going,” he scolds me affectionately.
“Will do.” I glance at my watch and hurry off in the direction of the train. “Welcome to the building,” I shout over my shoulder toward Tiffany. “If there’s anything you need, just let me know.”
“Okay, um, thanks,” she says, winding up our clever conversation and turning her attention (which, let’s face it, never really left) back to Terrance and the truck driver. “Now which of you boys is going to help me find my ThighMaster?”
I ’M STILL RATTLED as I sit down next to Sienna—and it’s not just about my near accident. Sienna’s and my legs are dangling side by side over the edge of a medical examining table in our beloved Dr. B.’s office. When Sienna pooh-poohs my opposition, I give her a little kick.
“You’re out of work and I’m broke,” I say guiltily. “This is wrong.”
“Nonsense,” says Sienna as a nurse wipes our faces clean with astringent-soaked cotton balls and then frosts them with a thin coat of numbing cream.
“No really,” I try to insist. “I’m supposed to be putting food on my family’s table, not poison in my forehead. Getting Botox is shallow and frivolous.”
“In times like these it’s shallow and
practical,
” Sienna argues. “Just today a job counselor told me that older people can’t find work. Besides, I’m paying for it out of my severancepackage. That fucking Jerry Gerard is responsible for at least half of these wrinkles; it’s only fair that he should foot the bill for smoothing them out.”
I dab at the numbing cream to make sure that it’s working and squirm around in my chair. Maybe it’s too much to expect a mountain climber to scale Everest on her first try. Or to ask me to give up trying to look my best after having spent a lifetime in Naomi’s shadow. Besides, now that Tiffany Glass is living in our building, it’s going to take a lot more than a Sub-Zero refrigerator to keep up with the neighbors.
“Thank you,” I say emotionally. “This is very generous.”
“Don’t mention it. I mean really, don’t,” Sienna says, patting my hand. “But if you happen to know a cute guy you’d like to introduce me to …”
“Cute guys, was somebody talking about cute guys?” Dr. B. asks cheerily, bouncing into the room on the balls of his gray ombre alligator loafers.
“Never mind that, love the outfit,” Sienna says, running her hand admiringly down the skinny lapel of Dr. B.’s black Prada suit with a nipped-in waist.
“I know, and look!” Dr. B. says pulling the flaps on his shirt pocket opened and closed. “Velcro!”
I hate going for a physical, you have to drag me to my yearly mammogram, but despite the fact that he sticks dozens of syringes in my face, I look forward to seeing Dr. Brandt—his needles are like magic wands, not to mention that he’s endlessly entertaining. I’d never trust my worry lines to anyone else, and neither would half the world’s most fabulous faces. Gwyneth flies him to London, Madonna has him on speed dial and
New York
magazine
“I’m known for my entrances.” She giggles flirtatiously.
“Mrs. Newman, meet our newest tenant, Ms. Glass. Ms. Glass bought the three MBA, EIK, CVAC, FISBO with BLT BC on the third floor,” Terrance says. Which, to those who don’t speak the one language common to all New Yorkers—real estate—is a three-bedroom, master suite with bath, eat-in kitchen, central-vacuum equipped, for-sale-by-owner apartment with built-in bookcases.
“Yes, yes I did. But call me Tiffany,” she says, still locking eyes on my muscular doorman.
“Tiffany, Tiffany Glass?” I chuckle congenially. “I bet a lot of people ask you about your name. I know a little bit about that myself. I’m Truman Newman.”
“Well, how about that?” Tiffany blinks.
Terrance tells the driver to take the truck around to the side entrance. “And Mrs. N, I want you to pay attention to where you’re going,” he scolds me affectionately.
“Will do.” I glance at my watch and hurry off in the direction of the train. “Welcome to the building,” I shout over my shoulder toward Tiffany. “If there’s anything you need, just let me know.”
“Okay, um, thanks,” she says, winding up our clever conversation and turning her attention (which, let’s face it, never really left) back to Terrance and the truck driver. “Now which of you boys is going to help me find my ThighMaster?”
I ’M STILL RATTLED as I sit down next to Sienna—and it’s not just about my near accident. Sienna’s and my legs are dangling side by side over the edge of a medical examining table in our beloved Dr. B.’s office. When Sienna pooh-poohs my opposition, I give her a little kick.
“You’re out of work and I’m broke,” I say guiltily. “This is wrong.”
“Nonsense,” says Sienna as a nurse wipes our faces clean with astringent-soaked cotton balls and then frosts them with a thin coat of numbing cream.
“No really,” I try to insist. “I’m supposed to be putting food on my family’s table, not poison in my forehead. Getting Botox is shallow and frivolous.”
“In times like these it’s shallow and
practical,
” Sienna argues. “Just today a job counselor told me that older people can’t find work. Besides, I’m paying for it out of my severancepackage. That fucking Jerry Gerard is responsible for at least half of these wrinkles; it’s only fair that he should foot the bill for smoothing them out.”
I dab at the numbing cream to make sure that it’s working and squirm around in my chair. Maybe it’s too much to expect a mountain climber to scale Everest on her first try. Or to ask me to give up trying to look my best after having spent a lifetime in Naomi’s shadow. Besides, now that Tiffany Glass is living in our building, it’s going to take a lot more than a Sub-Zero refrigerator to keep up with the neighbors.
“Thank you,” I say emotionally. “This is very generous.”
“Don’t mention it. I mean really, don’t,” Sienna says, patting my hand. “But if you happen to know a cute guy you’d like to introduce me to …”
“Cute guys, was somebody talking about cute guys?” Dr. B. asks cheerily, bouncing into the room on the balls of his gray ombre alligator loafers.
“Never mind that, love the outfit,” Sienna says, running her hand admiringly down the skinny lapel of Dr. B.’s black Prada suit with a nipped-in waist.
“I know, and look!” Dr. B. says pulling the flaps on his shirt pocket opened and closed. “Velcro!”
I hate going for a physical, you have to drag me to my yearly mammogram, but despite the fact that he sticks dozens of syringes in my face, I look forward to seeing Dr. Brandt—his needles are like magic wands, not to mention that he’s endlessly entertaining. I’d never trust my worry lines to anyone else, and neither would half the world’s most fabulous faces. Gwyneth flies him to London, Madonna has him on speed dial and
New York
magazine
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