Bitter Business

order, she explained, to counterbalance the bright tones of the aquamarine carpeting currently rolled up in the hallway. I thought the whole thing was going to end up looking like the waiting room of a color-blind gynecologist, but I didn’t say so. This was, I reflected, my final peacemaking attempt with Jack’s wayward daughter and I wanted at least to get started on the right foot.
    Lydia was in her element, parading from empty office to empty office, explaining which artists she planned on funding and laying out her grandiose plans for herself in her new role as feminist patroness of the arts. She’d changed her looks completely from the time I’d last seen her, which was at her sister’s funeral. Today she wore a black jumper over a black T-shirt, black tights, and a pair of brand-new black Doc Martens. Her hair hung straight and didn’t look like it had been brushed recently. She’d changed from the elaborate makeup she’d worn to emulate Peaches to plain white powder and generously applied lipstick in a particularly dramatic shade of dark red. I wondered how Peter felt about the fact that his mother suddenly looked as though she’d just raided one of his girlfriends’ closets. He was probably used to it. His whole life had no doubt been spent watching his mother’s attempts to reinvent herself.
    Lydia was clearly enjoying herself. From behind an enormous desk of polished teak in an otherwise vacant office, she sat posed as if for an audience of reporters. She had already hired a woman from Los Angeles, she explained in the voice of announcement, to edit a woman’s alternative-healing newsletter. Its focus would be on ways to rechannel negative energy and the use of herbal cures for stress-related disorders like migraines and cancer. As I tried to keep my face under control and stifle an almost overpowering desire to laugh, I reminded myself that I was temperamentally unfit for this kind of law practice. Daniel had been wrong about me. I was not a sympathetic listener and I certainly wasn’t very forgiving—especially when it came to fools like Lydia.
    “How are you going to get your funding?” I broke in, cutting her short on the subject of domestic violence. From her rambling discourse, it was impossible to tell if she believed that it was caused by a kind of mental illness that afflicted only the male of the species or was a symptom of men’s financial oppression of women. Personally, I couldn’t imagine what Lydia knew about either.
    “Naturally, the Republicans are cutting off funds for any kind of meaningful programs for social change,” she replied bitterly, “so we’re going to have to raise the money privately. I am personally funding the initial phase of the foundation’s work, but if we are to institute the kinds of sweeping programs that are so necessary, we’re going to have to raise substantial amounts of money. Right now we’re still evaluating our fund-raising alternatives.”
    “I confess I’m curious about the evolution of your feminist conscience,” I said, trying hard to sound earnest. “What exactly is it that made you decide to launch the foundation at this point in time?”
    “I came to be under the care of the most wonderful therapist. She’s the one who really helped me to understand the issues of my life, especially how they relate to my family in terms of the feminist class struggle. She suggested that as part of my therapy I do volunteer work at a battered women’s shelter. Unfortunately, because of the twins, I was only able to work there one afternoon, but I’m telling you, that afternoon completely changed my life. I can’t begin to express how strongly I related to those poor, abused women. I knew instantly that we were sisters under the skin.”
    I had no doubt that if Lydia succeeded in selling her shares, she would soon be parted from the money. And it didn’t bother me that Jack would end up footing the bill one way or another. But it seemed too bad that the proceeds were going to be frittered away on sculptures about menstruation and a crackpot newsletter instead of her “sisters under the skin” at the shelter.
    “I admire your ambition,” I said, I hoped sincerely. “But as you’ve probably guessed, I’ve come to talk to you about your family’s business. Your father asked me to speak to you today. He is desperate to make peace with you. I’m sure you realize how much he loves you. He sent me to find out what it will take to mend