Best Intentions by Emily Listfield Page A

and mother of two to be this insecure about a school meeting. I have not, in the past, had difficulty making friends, but the sense of being an interloper here has never completely dissipated. I had hoped it would be otherwise. Early on, I realized that many of the women I chalked up as trophy wives and fourth-generation former debutantes I would have nothing in common with are actually hardworking lawyers and architects, designers and journalists. I hovered around them at parent nights and socials, anxious to become friends, but they rarely put in appearances at morning drop-offs or committees like this. The women I was most interested in I saw the least. Like me, they had come to cede this territory to the nonworking mothers with a blend of relief and resignation.
    Six women, including Georgia, are already seated around the long mahogany table, their bags at their feet, leather-bound notepads at the ready. On the sideboard, there is a platter of minibagels, freshly squeezed orange juice in a glass pitcher from the Museum of Modern Art and a huge polished silver urn of coffee. Needless to say, no one is eating. I settle into a chair and surreptitiously check my BlackBerry before turning it to mute. I wonder briefly if in the entire 110-year history of Weston a single father has ever sat on this committee, but the answer is obvious. I am the only one dressed for a job and I feel hopelessly overdone in my black pencil skirt and top. Then again, the casual-chic-running-around-town thing the other women have going on is actually far harder to pull off. They probably came out of the womb wearing ballet flats.
    I try to enter into a conversation about our children’s first day ofschool and think I might actually be doing okay when the woman at the head of the table calls us ever so gently to attention. “Shall we begin?” she suggests. “For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Samantha. Class of ninety-one. As you know, this fund-raiser is the main Weston event of the year and there’s a lot of work to be done before February. The auction is our single biggest moneymaker and much of our energy will be spent lining up donations. To start, I thought we could take a look at last year’s offerings for inspiration.” Samantha, a whippet-thin brunette in a sleeveless cashmere shell that cunningly shows off her zero-body-fat biceps, hands out the creamy catalogue. As we begin to leaf through it, there are nostalgic murmurs about last year’s bids on the week in Provence, the front-row season tickets to the Knicks, the various dinners with famous alumni and parents, the walk-on part on an HBO series, the Oscar de la Renta wardrobe and the spending spree at Ralph Lauren. No one seems particularly concerned that charitable giving has gone down in double digits everywhere.
    â€œOf course, a number of these are perennials but I was hoping for some fresh ideas. Ladies?”
    â€œI could arrange a week at our ski lodge in Beaver Creek,” Tara Jamison, famous for the magnitude of her divorce settlement, offers in a low, flattened voice. Her smooth, luminously bronzed face is impassive as she lowers her cup of coffee and places it with great concentration in the china saucer. Secure, cosseted, she is a woman luxuriating in the knowledge that she will never have to rush anywhere ever again. Either that or she is taking way too much Prozac.
    â€œThat would be wonderful,” Samantha remarks approvingly.
    Tara nods and slowly brushes aside a lock of her glossy, honey-streaked hair. She is curvier than the others, completely comfortable with her own superbly maintained softness. This alien degree of body confidence elicits a grudging curiosity and barely concealed distrust.
    â€œMy husband should be able to get two tickets to the Academy Awards,” Georgia offers.
    â€œAnd entrée to the parties?” Samantha asks.
    â€œOf course.”
    Everyone murmurs assent and happily jots this