Following Polly Read online

  It wasn’t that Mother didn’t love me. I know that now and I knew it then. But my presence only reminded her of her dead son and her dead husband.

  As Mother retreated from me, I retreated from home, choosing instead to reside, for the most part, with my close friends, Stephanie, Pauline, and Daphne. Their parents were especially welcoming after learning of my bad fortune. They all had plenty of room and were happy to add an extra plate at the dinner table and carve out some space for me to sleep, study, and store my clothes.

  Although Stephanie had the nicest home, a town house near school with an entire floor all to herself, I was partial to staying at Daphne’s house, as she had a television in her room and a consistently impressive supply of baked goods in the pantry. Pauline’s mom was the closest I had to a parental surrogate. She showed an interest in my academic progress and often picked up a thoughtful gift for me when she was running errands.

  I’m not sure that I thrived emotionally under this system, but, on paper, I did very well. I continued to be a stellar student and had a stable of friends.

  When I was thirteen, five years after the plane crash, Mother got out of bed. At the urging of her theater friends, she went into therapy with Dr. Richard Reuban. Within a year, she was on stage again. No longer cast as the lovely ingénue, Mother had evolved into the brave-in-the-face-of-adversity character. She was still remarkably beautiful, but she was drained.

  When I was fifteen years old, Dr. Reuban urged Mother to try to meet someone.

  “I was never a dater,” Mother told him.

  “Don’t put labels on it, Angela. The last thing you need is pressure.”

  Finally, an opportunity presented itself. Our upstairs neighbors, Michael and Margot Berman, were having a small dinner party. They invited Mother.

  That was how she met Barnes.

  Barnes Newlan was taken with Mother the first second he saw her. And he didn’t mind that she was tired. He was good at taking care of people, and Angela Teakle looked as if she needed taking care of.

  Mother liked Barnes. Blind to his distractingly large forehead and oversized hands, she found him attractive.

  I’m not being fair.

  At first glance, he is appealing. He has a full head of bright white hair and a nice set of choppers. I rarely use this word in reference to teeth, but Barnes’s are ample and always in sight. He has very smooth skin for a man of his age. He lacks the natural leanness of my father, but remains in fairly good condition so as to avoid his inherent tendency to become pear shaped.

  From time to time, Barnes appears to be a boob. That said, he has an extraordinary knack for investing and spending money well. He took Mother’s notable fortune and converted it into a more notable one. And over the years he transformed her elegant nine-room Fifth Avenue apartment into an extremely elaborate homage to the Bourbon Monarchy, replete with enormous tapestries, precious objects, and slightly uncomfortable furniture. When Barnes was not managing Mother’s investments, he was managing Mother. Soon, she was working fairly regularly on television, in movies, and in the theater. She gained back fifteen of the twenty pounds she had lost. Her ash hair was back to its New York blond. She was, once again, her creative self.

  She had met her prince.

  But in this sleeping beauty tale, there is a hitch. Me.

  Which takes me to why seeing a therapist might not be such a bad idea.

  As I left Mother’s to head back to my rent-stabilized Hell’s Kitchen grotto, I realized the rest of my day—not to mention my life—was free. I stopped for a snack at the Land O’ Bread. They have the best, you guessed it, bread, in New York. The place is always packed with unsuspecting pedestrians who couldn’t pass up the aroma of warm cheddar buns. I walked in, grateful that there was only one customer ahead of me. In the mirror, I saw her face.

  It was Polly Dawson.

  Oh my!

  Not exactly the person you want to see when you’re feeling bad about yourself.

  I met her my first day at Harvard. I had just entered Thayer South’s cobwebbed but otherwise unremarkable entryway, when I noticed a very striking girl trying desperately to unlock her room.

  “Do you need some help?”

  “Is it that obvious?” she said, and gave an exaggerated sigh. “I’ve never been good with keys.”

  There was something endearing about this beautiful and together girl admitting that she was not good with something.

  I tried the door and was equally unsuccessful.

  “I hope Harvard isn’t trying to say something,” the girl said modestly.

  I laughed, my loneliness starting to melt. “Wait. I have another idea.” I pulled out my fresh ID and wedged it in the door. Nothing happened.

  “Just like MacGyver,” I said bitterly.

  “Thanks, Alice,” the girl said warmly.

  She knew my name. I was flattered and at the same time confused. How did she know? I hadn’t told her.

  She read my mind.

  “I’m not a witch or anything. Your name is on your little break-in gadget,” she said, chuckling, “and I noticed that you and I have the same birthday: April second. We could be twins.”

  Oh sure, twins. I was awkward, with brown hair and an iffy complexion, and she was the Breck Girl.

  “This is not a bad picture. I wish I could be half that photogenic.”

  “Let me see,” I asked, curious to see if this pretty girl could actually take a bad picture.

  She reached into her pocket and pulled out her card. First, I saw her name: Polly Linley. Then I saw her picture. It was the most perfect photo I had ever seen. In person, this Polly was not flawless. Her face was a little pointy, and her blond hair, though straight and shiny, was a little thin. None of these imperfections found their way into her cheap school ID photo. Polly not only looked flawless, she looked warm. I glanced at my own card. My hair was flat on my face and I had several burgeoning pimples. The photographer also took the picture before I got a chance to smile.

  “Maybe we could use your ID. Your picture might open a door that mine can’t.”

  It was worth a shot. I had seen enough episodes of This Old House to know that Massachusetts locksmiths were not at the top of their game in the 1880s.

  Polly handed me her ID and I put it in the door. Voilà, click, the door opened.

  “Great job, Alice,” Polly said warmly. “I can tell we’re going to be the best of friends.” Polly went into her room and, for lack of a better expression, closed the door in my face.

  I didn’t see Polly until later in the week at our official dorm welcome party. When I came in the door, she headed toward me.

  “Hi, Polly,” I said enthusiastically.

  “Oh.” She did not look at me but rather through me. “Hi.” And then she effusively greeted the gorgeous hockey player who came in behind me.

  Polly had not only lied about my photo being better than hers. She had also lied about not being a witch. We didn’t speak for the rest of the year. Nor did we speak for the three years after that.

  “She’s a user,” my roommate and now best friend, Jean Middleton, had told me when I relayed the story months later. “And she’ll get hers.”

  Jean was wrong. Polly Linley was a shining light at Harvard University. Sure, she was charmed to some degree, but added to her natural flair and good fortune was her relentless drive. She studied hard, and was a terrific student. She was up at 4:45 every morning for swim practice. She had men all over her. She had women all over her. And they were always the most successful, the most popular people on campus. I was useful to her as a one-time locksmith, but I lacked the requisite social résumé to have any other role.

  She also produced Harvard’s first-ever fashion show. Initially, the university’s population was skeptical: Such a superficial display would never go over at an intellectual hotbed like Harvard. Boy, were they wrong. Polly unapologetically selected the best-looking undergraduates. She even asked Jimmy Kagen, the funniest guy in the Ivy Leag
ue and now a successful comedian, to host. The fashion show catapulted Polly’s popularity. She became nationally known, appearing in many magazines and even landing a guest visit on The Tonight Show.

  “Some people peak in college,” Jean said when we saw Polly on the cover of Boston magazine. “In ten years Polly Linley will be an anonymous frump.”

  But it has been more than ten years and Polly Linley is about as far from anonymous and frumpy as anyone could get. She is stunning. Even at the Land O’ Bread. Her natural blond hair still looks natural enough. She’s fit, tall, and effervescent. I saw her face in the mirror, but she didn’t see mine. I was now, as I was then, invisible to her.

  I saw that other people at the Land O’ Bread were staring at her. Polly is pretty recognizable. She’s married to the famous director Humphrey Dawson. In fact, he’s directing Only at Sunrise, the film I was working on at Mona Hawkins Casting until today.

  Humphrey is Polly’s second husband. She’s thirty-two: exactly my age. After college, Polly eloped with Professor Jack Birnbaum. Ninety percent of the female students and at least ten percent of the males fantasized about Birnbaum.

  Ironically, Birnbaum taught a class called Morality in America. It was my first exposure to the concept of integrity, and Birnbaum seemed to embody it. He was ordinary looking: balding, medium height, with a doughy body and a wardrobe only the Jehovah’s Witnesses would be proud of. But the man had appeal. He was extremely passionate. I recall one classroom discussion of laws that prevent spouses from testifying against each other in criminal cases. We, of a sanctimonious age, so far away from thinking about the emotional complexity of marriage, were outraged by a policy that could protect criminals. Birnbaum tried to convince us otherwise, stating emphatically and dramatically: “I would—without a doubt—perjure myself for my wife.”

  The women in the class gasped. Jean swooned. I was crying outright.

  Two months later Birnbaum left his wife. He married Polly the day after graduation.

  A year later, Polly left him. She found that the life of an academic’s wife wasn’t as glamorous as the life of an academic’s mistress. It was even less glamorous when Harvard’s president invited Birnbaum to his home for tea and then asked him politely to resign.

  Birnbaum, it was rumored, begged his first wife to take him back. She didn’t.

  Polly then moved to New York, where she conquered the city’s social scene. In no time the daily tabloids dubbed her Princess Polly, and, ultimately, the Principessa. Taking advantage of her newfound fame, Polly launched the Principessa lingerie line. Within two years, she had a corner in Barneys. A year later, she was in all of the major department stores. Five years ago, she opened her very own store on Madison Avenue. Today there are Principessa stores in every upscale mall in the country. And she’s famous for always modeling her newest lingerie trend on the cover of her catalog. Polly’s romantic life has always been perfect for her image; she has dated politicians, heirs, captains of industry, and entertainers. The relationships were never long, usually because she terminated them before they got serious.

  “She may be successful, but she’ll never be happy,” Jean assured me.

  And then, about three years ago, when Polly demanded a top director for the launch of her arty big-budget Principessa ad campaign, she met the always dashing, sometimes aloof Humphrey Dawson. They fell in love in an instant. (“It was truly barfy,” Jean always says.) They had a very public, very romantic courtship and have been married for almost two years now. They are a golden couple.

  Jean and I are single.

  I looked in Land O’ Bread’s mirror, and I saw Polly and me. She is beautiful and I am on the ordinary side. We are the same height and weight, but I’m gangly with bad posture and she looks like the patron saint of Feldenkrais.

  We both have long, straight hair, but hers is bright blond and full while mine is two shades darker with a hint of wind tunnel. Her bone structure reinforces her good features; my bone structure reinforces my bone structure.

  She looks like a million bucks and I look as if I’m about to do laundry. We went to the same college. She’s a mogul and I’m an unemployed assistant.

  How did this happen?

  In truth, I don’t want to be Polly, but I could use a little of whatever it is that makes her tick. I don’t need to be involved with a famous director, but it would be fun to have a boyfriend or even a really good make-out session. I don’t need to be a mogul, but it would be nice to have a job.

  What is life like for Polly? Who does she talk to? Where does she go?

  Polly left the store, and without much thought, I was right behind her.

  Polly walks very quickly. With some huffing and puffing, I match her pace. We walk over to Lexington Avenue and Eighty-sixth Street. She descends the staircase for the Number 6 train, swipes her MetroCard, and goes through the turnstile.

  Polly Linley Dawson has a MetroCard?

  I, unfortunately, do not have a MetroCard. Mine has run out. I run up to the machine to put my credit card in and a train comes and goes, taking Polly with it.

  Why was she taking the subway? Polly was always portrayed in the media just as I remember her from college: a person who enjoys the amenities money can buy. Even back then she wore expensive perfumes, carried luxury handbags, and trotted about in designer shoes.

  An afternoon ride on the Number 6 in unseasonably hot weather is not comfortable. Polly Dawson’s hiding something. I have to know what it is.

  Okay. I want to know what it is.

  I’m up at 7:45. I make my coffee and then turn on the TV. Michael Ledyard, the most annoying guy in the world, is on The Today Show touting one-on-one private “straight” camps wherein gay people are cured. He’s been everywhere in the past couple of months: Larry King, Hannity & Colmes, Newsline. Ledyard, who claims to have cured his own homosexuality and charges a minimum of twenty-five thousand dollars to cure others, clearly finds Matt Lauer attractive.

  I have to wait another hour before calling the therapist that Mother recommended for me. I check my e-mail. Ooh, good, one from Daphne Feller, my best friend from high school.

  Hey there,

  How’s showbiz treating you? More specifically how’s crazy Mona? Guess what? I’m coming to town for a couple of days to celebrate my parents’ fortieth anniversary. My sister is planning a soiree, and she wants me to do a little retrospective of their marriage. Like I have the time. Help please—you’re the genius. What in the world did we do for the 20th? I know you were there (weren’t you?). Something about Santa Claus or something.

  I’ll be in for two days, and then I have to fly back Christmas Day. Can I see you? When are you coming to California?

  Daffy

  I write back to her immediately.

  Daph:

  So good to hear from you. I have left show business. More to the point, Mona banished me. On to more important things. Of course I was there for their 20th anniversary. Your parents had a small dinner party at Aquavit—you and Samantha and your parents and me. And then Samantha got to bring her best friend, Rachel Goldbaum. And your father had his friend from junior high school and his wife there. They were living in Sweden, I think. Anyway, your mom ordered the reindeer with Lingonberry, and Rachel flipped out that your mom was eating reindeer on Christmas Eve. She said that it was disrespectful to Rudolph and the gang. And then your father started laughing because someone named Goldbaum was showing a little too much sympathy for a Christian folk hero.

  Is that helpful? Don’t forget to use the thing that happened four years later when your mom forgot about the anniversary altogether and left your dad standing in the rain outside the Martin Beck Theater with two soaking-wet never-to-be-used tickets to see Guys and Dolls. And then when he screamed at your mom, she, without a missing a beat, started singing “Sue Me.” How great was that?

  I hope that’s enough to work with. If you want any more help, e-mail. You can call, too. I have some time.

  xo

>   Alice

  The therapist has a cancellation this morning and agrees to see me at ten.

  “How can I help you?” She asks this as if we are in a department store. I am sitting on her well-worn mustard-colored couch. The room is filled with hanging plants.

  I’m shopping for a new life. I explain that Mother wants me to be in therapy.

  “And do you want to be here?”

  “Sure. Mother has a point.”

  “Why do you call her Mother?” she asks right off. I admit it does connote a nineteenth-century sort of relationship. My college friends all made fun of it, but then they met her and started calling her Mother, too—to her face.

  The therapist’s name is Dawn Moses. She asks me to call her Dawn.

  “If my patients call me Dr. Moses, their expectations could be too high.” She laughs right as she says this. I can tell she has recited this introduction with this laugh at least a hundred times.

  We talk about Mona and why I was fired. She asks if this was the job for me.

  “I don’t know,” I say to her. “I hadn’t pictured doing anything else.”

  “Casting is a unique line of work. How did you get into it?”

  “Mother got me the job.”

  Does she think I’m Mother’s puppet? That I only work at jobs and see therapists she sends me to?

  “Oh,” she says.

  We sit awkwardly facing each other for a few seconds. Dawn is tall, fair skinned, with long hair, long earrings, and absolutely no makeup. She wears a crocheted vest over what looks to be a flowing blouse that must have been designed in Flanders, 1452. I bet she has an herb garden and bakes her own granola when she goes camping.

  “She was trying to help,” I say in Mother’s defense. “It’s not as if she were pushing me into a life of casting. At the time I needed a job, I was in my twenties, a little aimless, and Mother had a friend who knew Mona. I liked the job. I was good at it. And even though Mona was an unpleasant presence, I didn’t mind her. I found her behavior entertaining, except of course when she fired me.”