Mine Are Spectacular! by Janice Kaplan Read Free Book Online Page A

time, high heels. Finally, he deigns to look at me, and I quickly ask, “How much veal do I need for three people?”
    Without bothering to answer, he begins slicing and quickly hands me the wrapped package—clearly ready to help someone with larger ambitions. I miss my old butcher. At least his apron wasn’t designed by Gucci.
    I stop by the local fancy carb emporium S.U.G.A.R. to pick up a D.E.S.S.E.R.T. I look at the Sacher torte, so small that Dylan would probably polish it off before dinner. For thirty-six dollars, I’d rather have it mounted and hung on the wall. Maybe cookies, then. Although at five dollars apiece, one late-night snack attack and I could bankrupt even Bradford.
    A couple more errands and I head back with lots of packages and an empty wallet. Given what the Gristedes up here charges for Ultra Charmin, it better be ultra-ultra. No telling what the local post office charges for thirty-seven-cent stamps.
    When I open the door to the house I’m hit by an icy cold blast of air. I shiver and check the air conditioner thermostat, which is set at a frosty fifty-eight.
    â€œConsuela?” I call out, trying to figure out what’s going on.
    Our housekeeper trudges out of the kitchen, wearing a parka and wool mittens. Bradford’s black lab Pal comes trailing dutifully behind her, dressed in a royal blue doggie sweater. I wouldn’t say Pal is spoiled, but he does have a dog walker who comes in three times a day. When he gained two pounds, she insisted on taking him to the gym and working him out on the treadmill, but we drew the line at putting him on Atkins. The other day, she reprimanded me for taking Pal along on my morning bike ride.
    â€œNow he’s too tired for a proper walk,” she chided. “What will the other dogs say?”
    I wanted to tell her they probably wouldn’t say a single word. And if they did, she should stop walking them and start booking them on David Letterman.
    â€œMiss Berni is here again,” Consuela says now, shaking her head and pointing toward the living room. “Those twins better get born soon or we’re all going to freeze to death.”
    Berni has assumed her usual position on the Betsy Ross couch, and she’s flipping through a Victoria’s Secret catalogue.
    â€œI stopped getting these at my house,” she says. “Even the mailman can’t imagine that I’ll ever wear a teddy again.”
    â€œOh come on, even pregnant you’re still hot,” I say.
    â€œYou have no idea how hot,” Berni groans, now using the catalogue as a fan. “How did I let my husband convince me to move to New York in the summer before the house was finished and with no air-conditioning? He gave me some song and dance about sea breezes. What did I think? We were moving to Bali?”
    I laugh and wrap a blanket around my shoulders.
    â€œThank God for you and your central air-conditioning,” Berni continues. “My internal temperature’s at a hundred and ten, but we can’t even put a temporary window unit in the bedroom. The community board says it’ll destroy the integrity of Hadley Farms. Oh please. All anybody cares about around here is how things look from the outside. I didn’t have to leave L.A. for that. Doesn’t anybody care about the inner me?”
    â€œSure they do. Your husband and your nutritionist,” I say. “Not to mention your obstetrician.” I pull the blanket a little tighter around me. Is it my imagination, or is it so cold in here that I can see my breath?
    â€œOh, shit,” says Berni. She brings her hand quickly to her mouth. “I didn’t mean to say ‘shit.’ I meant ‘damn.’ I promised myself I wouldn’t swear in front of the twins.” She pats her stomach and looks down remorsefully. “Sorry, guys.”
    â€œWhat’s wrong?” I ask, less concerned about her language than her going into labor.