The View From Penthouse B - By Elinor Lipman Page 0,66
our pinot grigio had been too long in the refrigerator and had been lousy to start with.
Anthony said, “We could always call Charles and invite him up for a glass of excellent pinot noir. BYOB.”
“No, thank you,” said Margot. “Tuesday’s soon enough.”
Anthony said, “I thought you were getting along very well. In fact, I thought you were unofficially back together.”
“Who told you that?”
“No one,” I said.
“A surveillance camera caught you two cupcakin’ it under the same afghan,” he said.
“Is that really a verb?” I asked.
“Is that what you surmised, too?” Margot asked me.
“More or less. If not back together, at least no longer enemies.”
Margot said, “That much is correct. We are no longer enemies.”
“So no big announcement?” Anthony asked.
“Not in that department.” She took a sip from her glass. “Remind me not to buy this one again.” She paused. “But I do have something to tell you. And this might be the right time.”
What she then announced, her tone outsized for what followed, was “Gwen. Anthony. The time has come for me to close down the PoorHouse.”
What I heard, or what I perceived, was Margot wanting to live alone. “PoorHouse,” in something like an auditory panic, struck me as “penthouse.” I processed her announcement as a request for us to leave.
“I don’t make a red cent,” she continued, “and for sure it hasn’t attracted any publishers. When I don’t blog, I feel guilty. And since the death of the Madoff boy, I just don’t have the same fire in my belly. It’s so discouraging to find my chat room empty all the time, except for the occasional sister.”
I couldn’t speak for Anthony, but I had long ago relegated her PoorHouse.com to the inactive file. I said, “I think you’re making the right decision. Time is money. And what about job satisfaction? You fired up the blog when you were aggravated.”
Anthony said, “I’m going to say something harsh now. Maybe not harsh. Maybe just candid. But here goes: We have to get jobs. Real ones. We’re too comfortable sitting at our laptops, pretending it’s work, scraping by on lentils and ground chuck and cheap wine.”
I said, “That’s not harsh. It’s true. I need a job. What’s been stopping me from looking?”
He pointed. “You, life insurance, and probably savings, and maybe Edwin’s pension. Me, unemployment compensation and savings . . . Margot, alimony and boarders. We’re getting by and we’re getting used to it.”
Margot said, “Maybe I need to go back to school.”
“In what?” I asked.
“In whatever gets a person a job. And wherever they give scholarships.”
Anthony said, “Maybe you could work the Ponzi angle into your financial aid applications.”
Margot said, “I’m taking a look at my divorce settlement. I think there’s something in there about Charles paying for graduate school.”
Anthony asked me, “You used to do—what was it?—advertising copy?”
“Freelance writer. Usually for utility companies.”
Margot and he exchanged looks.
I said, “I know it sounds dull, but sometimes I got to write about employee heroics.”
“Such as?”
“Such as the engineer who pulled a customer out of a swimming pool and gave her CPR when for all intents and purposes she had drowned! And another about an employee in a call center who talked a customer through childbirth.”
“Do you have clips?” Anthony asked. “A portfolio?”
I said that my reporting didn’t make for much of a portfolio since it appeared on bill inserts and in-house newsletters.
“I don’t want you at the computer all day,” said Margot. “We’ve had enough of the stationary life. I’d like to see you out in the world, in an office, in a skyscraper along with thousands of people, making friends in the cafeteria—that very thing you said you were ready for.”
“I wouldn’t mind that, either,” said Anthony. “Out in the world again, which is another reason why personal assistant is a nonstarter, unless you’re a twenty-two-year-old girl.”
“Not so fast,” said Margot. “You could design a job yourself, some kind of hybrid. Does Craigslist have position-wanted ads? Because Gwen and I could write it for you.” She drummed her fingers on the kitchen island and stared out over his shoulder. “Okay. Like this: ‘Do you need someone fabulous to run your life? We have the ideal candidate—smart and talented, energetic and personable . . .’ You’d write it, of course. But it would be in the third person, from our point of view, so we can rave.”
“Maybe,” said Anthony, clearly meaning No way. “But what about Miss Margot? Remind me what you did in your working life.”