The Auerbach Will [antikvár]

One"People used to say I was an absolute ringer for Gene Tiemey," Joan is saying, standing in front of the long mirror of the entrance hall. "An absolute ringer." She fingers her throat. "Do you like this necklace, Mother? It's by Kenny Jay Lane. The stones aren't real, and neither is the gold, but I think it's an amusing fake.""I'd be nervous about wearing real stones these days," Essie says. "Mrs. Perlman, downstairs, had a diamond and sapphire clip ripped off her jacket by a man on the street, right here on Park Avenue." Essie is thinking how well Joan has kept her figure, that extraordinary thinness. Most women, when they reach a certain age, tend to thicken around the middle like well, like Essie Auerbach herselfbut not Joan. Oh, of course Essie knows how Joan does it. She never eats. Oh, sometimes an asparagus spear, a little bit of fish, a mouthful of spinach. But otherwise she just pushes the food about on her plate, pretending to eat. She lets her wineglass be filled, but just pretends to sip at it. She helps herself to the dessert, spoons the raspberry sauce over it, but doesn't touch it. Before dinner, she always asks for a bourbon old-fashioned, but just pretends to drink it. Essie Auerbach has long since given up trying to tell her daughter that she needs to eat to stay healthy. After all, Joan is never sick.Seeing Joan, still a perfect size four, walking toward you on a crowded street, or across a softly lighted room, you might think for a moment that this was the body of a trim teenager, her glossy reddish-brown hairthanks to the ministrations of