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privacy, but I can’t bear to leave. Something makes her giggle again.
    “Then ask me questions,” she coos.
    I’d give anything to know what the Mystery Caller asks now, because the next thing she says is:
    “Pink silk.” And then she giggles again.
    Another pause. And then, “Just the kind you like.”
    My face gets red, even though I’m not the one on the phone.
    Lucy looks up and sees me, but I might as well not be there. “Yes, you looked great on the show this morning,” she gushes into the phone. “I liked the Hermès tie. Is that the one you were telling me about?”
    He—because I’m pretty sure by now it’s a “he”—must have a self-esteem problem because she quickly says, “Yes, you were wonderful. You always are.”
    Lucy rolls her eyes at me, pretending she can’t wait to hang up, but the guy at the other end won’t let go that easily. “You were great, sweetheart, trust me. But I have to get off. Yes, I’ll call back in an hour. Promise. Okay. Me too.”
    Lucy hangs up, stuffs the phone back into her beige Dior hobo bag and says brightly, “So. I’m sorry about that. Now you never told me about Dr. Paulo.”
    “Not so fast,” I say. “Who was that?”
    “Just someone I work with.”
    “The guy who flirted with you in L.A.?” I ask, sensing a plotline.
    Before she has a chance to answer, Cynthia—goddamn Cynthia—rings a bell. A real bell. I swear. She’s standing in the middle of the gym holding a cowbell. We all look at her, which is what she really seems to want in life, and for a moment it appears that she’s going to take a bow. Instead, she chirps, “Ladies, it’s time! The children are waiting for us in the classrooms!”
    I hope Cynthia hasn’t planned the class activities, too. Following the Nancy Drew read-aloud, she’ll probably have us playing hopscotch.
    After my morning in Jen’s classroom, I spend three hours at my computer working on my presentation for the Arts Council for Kids. Great group, bad acronym. Unlike the rest of the staff, I refuse to say “ACK” out loud, unless of course I’m choking on a hot dog. But be that as it may, it’s a worthy cause. Since I became their fund-raiser five years ago, I’ve raised four million dollars for the Council, which sounds like a lot, but in Manhattan terms, it’s what certain people drop in an afternoon at Harry Winston. But I have a plan this year to blow it out of the water.
    I manage to return a few phone calls although none of my conversations are as intriguing as Lucy’s. Maybe I’m in the wrong business. Or not. I like the kids we help, I like the cause, and I especially like that I can work part-time, mostly from home. I get to earn a living without changing out of my sweatpants.
    Just before Jen gets home, marking the usual end of my workday, I catch myself staring in the mirror, counting my crow’s-feet. Then the phone rings again, but this time it’s not business. As soon as I pick it up and say, “Hello,” Lucy blurts, “So why did you hate Dr. Paulo?”
    I laugh. “ ‘Hello, how are you’ is usually a better way to start a conversation.”
    “Hello, how are you. Why did you hate him? You never answered me this morning.”
    “I didn’t hate him. He’s just not my type. Sorry. Wasn’t a great night.”
    Lucy groans. “I don’t know how it could have gone wrong. He’s so good with Botox.”
    Well, that’s a quality that never made my list of what-to-look-for-in-a-husband. Kind and caring. Sense of humor. And—who knew?—good with Botox.
    “Maybe he sees too many beautiful women all day,” I suggest generously. “He’s gotten kind of spoiled.”
    “Okay, I’ve got to ask this. What kind of underwear were you wearing?”
    Am I missing another connection here or … Oh, for goodness’ sake! Does Lucy think I dropped anything more than my dignity? “Trust me, Lucy. Underwear wasn’t the issue. He didn’t get to see it, believe me.”
    “No, no. I’m just thinking that