Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [107]
I turn on my cell phone and check my messages, hoping that Ruth has called. But there’s only one message, and it’s not from Ruth.
Enid Maxwell wants to meet with me, according to the message left on my cell phone at 11:16 this morning. I hadn’t heard a word from her since I e-mailed her my review a couple of weeks ago and had assumed she wasn’t interested. I lose no time in calling her back and am surprised when a young woman, who seems to be expecting my call, answers the phone. “Yes, Ms. Rinaldi,” she says, as if she knows me. “Ms. Maxwell is available to meet with you this afternoon at two o’clock. Would that be convenient?”
No, it wouldn’t, unless Ms. Maxwell wouldn’t mind if I drag my sleep-deprived toddler to the meeting. Now, since my fight with Ruth, I’ve lost my regular babysitter. “How about Wednesday afternoon?” I suggest. My dad’s office hours are on Wednesdays. Maybe he wouldn’t mind letting Chloe take her afternoon nap in his office. That, or maybe Fiona would be willing to watch her during her lunch hour.
“Let me check her schedule.” I hear clicking sounds. “Ms. Maxwell can see you at one forty-five on Wednesday.”
“Perfect,” I tell her. Prime napping time.
I call Ruth again and leave yet another apology on her answering machine. By the time I hang up the phone, I’m exhausted. I put my feet up and flip through this month’s Bon Appétit, marveling that someone who used to live action-packed eighteen-hour days is now wiped out by a trip to the park and a pediatrician appointment.
I flip absently through the magazine, at least until I get to page sixty-eight, where a tiny two-sentence blurb catches my eye. It’s in the “Up and Coming” section and announces the opening of a small enoteca in the financial district. “Il Vinaio,” the blurb says, “is brought to us by the owners of the popular West Village trattoria, Grappa. In addition to an extensive collection of wines, overseen by sommelier Nicola Cabot and partner Jake Shaw, Il Vinaio will serve a selection of small plates.”
Sommelier? Since when is a slut who drinks too much a sommelier?
The phone is in my hands before I can stop myself. Renata doesn’t answer, but her machine picks up immediately. “Why didn’t you tell me?” is all I can manage.
I’m unable to call Ruth who, were she speaking to me, would undoubtedly have something calming to say or, at a minimum, would be willing to Google the restaurant and filter the reviews, picking out only the bad ones. In desperation I call Dr. D-P. When her machine picks up, I leave a message telling her that I’ve just heard from Enid and asking her to call me back. I figure when she does, I might be able to wheedle some free therapy over the phone. I hang up and within minutes I manage to work myself into a frenzy of gargantuan proportions.
“How can Jake do this?” I wail hysterically, when the phone rings a while later.
“Do what, Mira?”
“Open another restaurant! The time and energy—not to mention the money! Do you have any idea how difficult it is? How expensive?” Dr. D-P is silent while in between sobs, I fill her in.
Finally, she says, “Mira, this isn’t really about the money, is it?”
“The bastard couldn’t even pay me child support. Now he’s having another baby and opening a new restaurant!” I tell her, hiccupping loudly into the phone.
“What you really mean is how could he have moved on, don’t you?”
I recoil as if I’ve been slapped.
“What you need right now is an attitude adjustment,” Dr. D-P says, her voice clear, steady, and purposeful. “For starters, let’s turn that statement around. How about instead of asking ‘how could he,’ we ask a different question. How about we ask, ‘how could you?’ ”
“How could I what?”
“We are going to put you in an ‘I’ll show him’ frame of mind,” Dr. D-P says.
The assignment is to stand in front of the bathroom mirror and imagine that I’ve just run into Jake on the street. What do I want him to see and what do I want him to know about my life?
So, I stand there, staring into the bathroom