Margot left the table and headed into the den.
I heard only murmuring, followed by laughter. Then she was back, still on the phone but now speaking to me. “Are you home tonight?” she asked. And then back to the caller: “My sister is a matchmaking consultant. She’s often on duty at night.”
I said, “I’m home.”
“Do you know where we are . . . ? That’s right. North side of the street. Just give the doorman your name. He’ll point you to the right elevator.”
“Who’s coming over?” I asked, as soon as she clicked her phone shut.
“A man. An acquaintance.” And then—too gently, too psychiatrically: “His name is Anthony. You’ll meet him and you’ll form an opinion.”
“About what?”
“His suitability.”
“For what?”
She picked up her coffee cup, pantomiming refill. The swinging door between us closed, and I waited for her return.
After a conspicuously long absence—she’s bringing water back to a boil for her French press, I thought; not dodging my question, not stalling. Finally she returned, an English muffin split and toasted on a plate. She walked by me, clearly heading for her desk. “Bills to pay,” she said.
I called after her, “Now I’m really nervous. Now I’m thinking you need your apartment back. And this Anthony is a therapist who makes house calls, who’s going to be present when you break the news to me.”
She backtracked and scolded, “Where do you get these ideas? I don’t want my house back! I want more people around, not fewer.”
“Including me?”
“Gwen! You’re the reason I want more people around! I like the company. I think we can accommodate another.”
Thus I learned that Anthony was interviewing for residency. And as much as I was looking unhappy and worried, and as often as she’d promoted democracy and equality—this, she was telling me, had to be her decision and her pocketbook’s.
“Did you think about consulting me before you advertised for a roommate?”
“I didn’t advertise. It just happened. Literally on the street.”
“Not a panhandler, I trust.”
“Of course he isn’t a panhandler! He was picketing outside what used to be his office. I can’t remember—which one went under? Merrill Lynch? Goldman Sachs?”
“Lehman Brothers.”
“There was a whole bunch of them picketing. He had a baby in one of those slings that hang around your neck.”
“A baby? How are we going to have a baby here?”
“It was a borrowed black baby for extra effect! One of his coworkers, a fellow picketer, was there with her twins, so he took one. His signage didn’t hurt, either, in terms of catching my attention.” She demonstrated—exaggerated scrutiny, eyes bugging out.
“What did it say?”
“To most people, his slogan would have meant nothing. But it’s what stopped me cold. And when I tell you, you’ll understand what drew my eye.”
“‘Will work for food?’” I asked.
“No,” said Margot. “Much more . . . coincidental. And relevant. Believe it or not, the sign said NEXT STOP: THE POOR HOUSE! You can imagine how that hit me! I had to ask him if he knew about my website, didn’t I?”
“Did he?” I asked.
“Absolutely not. Which made it all the more kismetish. I gave him my card so he could check out my blog,” she continued. “He did. Right on the spot! On his phone! By this time, I’d kind of joined the picket line, so I was filling in the personal and domestic blanks. These financial types are always good with their gadgets, so he’s reading and marching and talking and patting the baby’s back. Eventually I left, and there was an e-mail waiting for me when I got back here. ‘By any chance, do you have a room to let?’ I said no. He didn’t give up. He wrote back, ‘Even for a month or two? Even a sofa? Pretty please.’”
“So you said yes?”
“I said, ‘Come over for a drink and meet my sister.’”
“How old?”
“Young.”
“How young?”
“Late twenties.”
Decision obviously made, I asked, “Whose bathroom will he use?”
“The powder room. He says he’ll shower at his gym.”
“If he can afford gym membership—”
“That’s all he can afford!”
“But you haven’t made a firm commitment, correct?”
“Gwen. Let’s be practical. Remember the stuff Daddy took care of? Wouldn’t it be nice to have someone who knew his way around a fuse box? And who could unscrew jar lids? How about transferring a turkey from oven to cutting board? Remember that fiasco?”
When I didn’t respond, she added, “Besides finding a job, and selling my jewelry, what’s easier than bringing in an extra boarder for fifty dollars a night?”
I did the math: at least $1,800 a month.
“Negotiable,”