by Emily Giffin
Because after all, although it did happen a long time ago, it will never really feel okay.
And now, as I wait for Andy to pick me up after his thirty-six holes of golf, I feel another unexpected stab of motherless grief as I sit with Margot, Ginny, and their two mothers, indulging in more champagne and the usual party post-mortem, covering everything including the best present (a bright green Bugaboo stroller given by Margot’s tennis friends), the most shameful regift (a Red Envelope quilt that, unbeknownst to the giver, was embroidered with her daughter’s name, Ruby), the best-dressed guest (wearing vintage Chanel), the worst-dressed invitee (donning a crocheted magenta halter with a black bra), and aghast speculation about who-in-the-world spilled merlot on Ginny’s dining-room chair.
“If only I had turned my nanny cam on,” Ginny says, giggling and stumbling in her heels before plopping down on a leopard-print occasional chair.
I smile, thinking how much more tolerable—verging on likable—Ginny is when she’s drunk and not constantly posturing, angling, and trying to prove how much closer she is to Margot than I am. She’s still a bitch with an amazing sense of entitlement, but at least she’s a lighthearted bitch with an amazing sense of entitlement.
“Do you really have one of those?” Stella asks, peering up at the ceiling.
“It’s called a hidden camera for a reason,” I quip, playing with a strand of yellow raffia. My frugal side is tempted to cart the whole garbage bag home, as Margot unwrapped her gifts so delicately—but given my state of emotional turmoil, it doesn’t seem to make much sense to worry about salvaging wrapping paper.
“Of course she has a nanny cam, Stell,” Ginny’s mother, Pam, says, pointing to an artificial floral arrangement atop a built-in bookcase, in what feels to be a subtle form of worldly goods one-upmanship. “And Margot should have one installed, too…particularly with a newborn and the influx of baby nurses and other help.”
I inwardly cringe at the oft-used term help—covering everything from gardeners to nannies to housekeepers to pool guys to even, in Pam’s case, drivers (she hasn’t been behind the wheel on a highway in twenty-two years—a bizarre point of pride for her). In fact, whether griping or bragging about their help, it has to be my least favorite topic in Margot’s world—right up there with their children’s private schools and black-tie galas (which are often galas for their children’s private schools).
Stella continues, “Have you ever caught anyone doing…anything?” Her eyes widen, as I note that my mother-in-law, otherwise so in charge and dynamic, seems to become somewhat passive around her brash, bossy best friend. I watch them together, fleetingly wondering whether I’m also a different version of myself around Margot.
Ginny shakes her head, plucking a whimsical lavender petit four from an heirloom silver tray that, I feel quite sure, her help polished this morning. “Not so far…But you can never be too careful when it comes to your children.”
We all silently nod, as if pausing to observe the profound wisdom of this latest nugget from Ginny—nuggets she always delivers in a revelatory tone, as if she’s the first to ever say or think such a thing. My favorite, that I heard her pipe up with as guests speculated that Margot must be having a boy because she’s carrying so low, is: “I’m so glad she and Webb are waiting to find out! It’s the only surprise left in life.” Ahh, you’re so original, Ginny! Never heard that one before. And, as an aside, although I have no real opinion on what seems to be a highly charged, value-laden decision, how do so many couples figure that not availing oneself of ultrasound technology qualifies as a surprise? Furthermore, what other surprises have gone by the wayside over the last few decades? People don’t throw surprise parties anymore? No more unexpected flower deliveries or gifts? I don’t get it.
I finish my glass of champagne, turn to Ginny, and announce, “Well. I think I know who spilled the wine.”
“Who?” everyone says at once, even Margot, who can usually tell when I have a joke queued up.
“That ugly slob of a girl,” I say, suppressing a smirk.
“Who?” they all say again as Ginny starts to guess, actually tossing out names of less attractive guests.
I shake my head and then proudly announce, “Lucy,” referring to Andy’s Lucy. His high-school-turned-freshmen-year-in-college sweetheart who Margot added to the invite list after asking for my permission.
“If you’re at all uncomfortable with it, I won’t do it,” Margot said more than once, always going on to explain her various charity fundraiser and country club connections—along with the unfortunate, albeit attenuated, familial overlap (Lucy is married to Webb’s second cousin).
I repeatedly reassured Margot that it was no big deal at all, and that I was actually quite curious to meet Andy’s first love—and that I’d rather have the meeting under controlled circumstances, i.e., with makeup on. But secretly, I think my real motivation had more to do with Leo. After all, Lucy coming to the shower would serve as another golden rationalization in my battery of internal excuses: Margot’s ex does her landscaping; Andy’s ex comes to his sister’s baby shower. So why can’t I occasionally work with mine?
In any event, I am clearly joking now, as Lucy’s a far cry from ugly. Her Kewpie-doll features, ivory skin, and ringlet red hair put her squarely in the pretty category, and her body’s probably the best I’ve ever seen in person—a cartoonish hourglass that would have looked even more outrageous had she been dressed less conservatively. Margot and Stella laugh appreciatively—while their petty counterparts exchange a satisfied, raised-brow look, their cat-fight radars delightfully sounding.
I roll my eyes and say, “C’mon. I’m kidding. The girl is gorgeous.”
Ginny looks disappointed that there is no controversy while Pam throws back her head with an annoying laugh-track giggle and says, way too enthusiastically, “Isn’t she precious?”
“She is indeed,” I say magnanimously as I think back to my conversation with Lucy earlier that afternoon—how sweet, almost nervous, she seemed when she told me how wonderful it was to meet me. I told her it was great meeting her too, actually meaning it. Then, despite a disturbing image of her nineteen-year-old-self straddling my husband, I added, “I’ve heard such nice things about you.”
Lucy, who very well could have been envisioning the same thing, blushed, smiled, and laughed. She then referred to Andy—and their time together—in exactly the right vein, acknowledging that he had been her boyfriend, but making it more about the era—and generic young love—than their relationship.
“I just hope he threw away those prom pictures. Hideous, big hair. What was I thinking?…Did you have big, eighties hair, Ellen?”
“Did I have big hair?” I said. “I’m from Pittsburgh—where Flashdance was filmed. I had big hair and legwarmers.”
She laughed, as we gingerly segued to the present, discussing her five-year-old son, Liam, his mild autism, and how horseback riding, of all things, has so helped him. Then we covered our move to Atlanta and my work (I was surprised to discover that Margot had told Lucy—and a lot of guests, for that matter—about my Drake shoot). And that was pretty much that—we both moved on to different conversations. Yet throughout the shower, I caught her giving me at least a dozen sideways glances—glances that indicated to me that she still might have some lingering feelings for Andy. Which, of course, ushered in all sorts of mixed feelings—guilt and gratitude topping the list.
I feel this combination of emotions again now as Stella looks at me and says so sincerely, “Lucy is a pretty girl, but you’re far prettier, Ellen.”
“And way smarter,” Margot says, adjusting the tie on her pale yellow wrap dress.
“Andy’s so blessed to have you,” Stella adds.
As I open my mouth to thank them, Ginny interrupts what she must perceive to be a feel-good family moment and says, “Where are those guys anyway? It’s almost three…Craig promised he’d baby-sit this afternoon while I sleep off this champagne.”
I reac
h for my purse, thinking that when fathers spend time with their own children, it should not be called baby-sitting.
“Maybe Andy called,” I say, pulling out my cell at the very second that Leo’s name lights up my screen. My stomach drops with excitement, and although I know I should put the phone right back in my bag, I stand and hear myself say, “Excuse me for a sec. This is about my shoot tomorrow.”
Everyone nods their understanding as I scurry to the kitchen—already spotless thanks to Ginny’s diligent caterers and invisible housekeeper—and answer a hushed hello.
“You still coming tomorrow?” Leo says.
“C’mon,” I whisper as I feel another jolt of adrenaline.
“Just checking,” he says.
A ripple of high-pitched laughter emanates from the living room, prompting Leo to ask, “Where are you?”
“At a baby shower,” I murmur.
“Are you pregnant?” he deadpans.
“Yeah, right,” I say, feeling relieved that that’s not a possibility—and then guilt for feeling such intense relief.
“So. About tomorrow. Do you wanna just come directly to my place? And we’ll go from there?”
“Sure,” I whisper. “That’ll work.”
“Okay then…I guess I’ll let you go,” Leo says, although I can tell he wants to keep talking.
“Okay,” I say, just as reluctantly.
“See you tomorrow, Ellen.”
“See you tomorrow, Leo,” I say, feeling flirty and fluttery as I snap my phone shut, turn around, and find Margot staring at me. My silly grin evaporates almost instantly.
“Who’re you talking to?” she asks, her eyes blazing with bewildered accusation.
“It was about the shoot,” I say, floundering as I silently replay the conversation, wondering exactly what she heard.
She obviously heard me say Leo’s name—as well as my tone of voice—because she says, “How can you do this?”
“Do what?” I mumble, my face growing hot.
Margot’s brow furrows and her lips become a thin line. “You’re going to New York to see him, aren’t you?”
“I’m…going to New York for work,” I say—which clearly isn’t a denial.
“For work? Really, Ellen?” she says, and I can’t tell if she’s more hurt or angry.
“Yes. It is for work,” I say, nodding adamantly, clinging to this last shred of truth. “It’s a legitimate photo shoot on Coney Island.”
“Yeah. I know, I know. Coney Island. Right,” she says, shaking her head, as I think back to the few questions she asked about the shoot—and the cursory answers I gave her before changing the subject to safer waters. “But it’s with him? You’re going to see him, aren’t you?”
I slowly nod, hoping for her mercy, some understanding—just as I’ve tried to give her, about her decision, years ago.
“Does Andy know?” she asks. It is the same question she posed in the airport; only this time, I can tell she is at her absolute tipping point.
I look at her, but say nothing—which is, of course, a resounding no.
“Why, Ellen? Why are you doing this?” she says.
“I…I have to,” I say apologetically but resolutely.
“You have to?” she says, perching one hand on her stomach as she slides her Lanvin ballet flats together. Even in a crisis, she looks graceful, poised.
“Margot,” I say. “Please try to understand—”
“No. No, Ellen,” she says interrupting me. “I don’t understand…I don’t understand why you’d do something so immature…and hurtful…and destructive…Taking the Drake assignment was one thing, but this…This is too much.”
“It’s not like that,” I say, floundering.
“I heard you, Ellen. I heard your voice—the way you were talking to him…I can’t believe this…You’re ruining everything.”
And as she rests her other hand on her stomach, I know she means everything. Her shower. The friendship. My marriage. Our family. Everything.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
And although I am sorry, I can feel my shame shifting into self-righteousness as it occurs to me that we might not be having this conversation had she been straight with me years ago. Had she remembered that we were friends first—before I was ever with Andy. My mind races as I consider whether to tell her that I know what she did—whether there is any downside. I allude to it, saying, “I just need…to sort some things out that needed to be sorted out a long time ago…”
Clearly not getting the hint, she shakes her head and says, “No. There’s absolutely no excuse in the world for this—”
“Really?” I say, interrupting her. “Well, what’s your excuse, Margot?”
“Excuse for what?” She looks at me, confused, as I wonder if she forgot about his visit, or otherwise revised history, editing his return right out of her memory.
“For never telling me that he came back,” I say. My voice is calm, but my heart is pounding.
Margot blinks, looking momentarily startled before quickly gathering herself. “You were with Andy,” she says. “You were in a relationship with Andy.”
“So what?” I say.
“So what?” she says, horrified. “So what?”
“I don’t mean ‘so what’ that I was with Andy…I mean…what makes you think your telling me about Leo would have threatened anything?”
She crosses her arms and laughs. “Well. I think we have our answer right here.”
I stare into her eyes, refusing to mix the two issues. “You should have told me,” I say, spitting the words out. “I had a right to know. I had a right to make that choice for myself…And if you thought my leaving Andy was even a possibility…well, all the more reason that you should have told me.”
Margot shakes her head, in perfect, outright denial, as I realize that I’ve never heard her say that she’s sorry—or that she was wrong. About anything, to anyone. Ever.
“Well, Andy has a right to know this,” she says, ignoring my point altogether. “He has a right to know what his wife is doing.”
Then she straightens her back, raises her chin, and says in a steely, cold, spitfire voice, “And if you don’t tell him, Ellen…then I will.”
Thirty
A few seconds later, Craig, Webb, Andy, and James burst in from the side door, looking sweaty, sunned, and satisfied. I inhale sharply, struggling to regain my composure as I watch Margot do the same. For one beat, I worry that she might make an unprecedented scene and divulge everything right there on the spot. But, if nothing else, she would never embarrass her brother like that. Instead, she practically runs to Webb, resting her head on his chest as if seeking refuge in her own flawless relationship.
I watch the two of them together, marveling that I felt the same way about Andy—that he was my bedrock—only a few short months ago. Now I stand several paces away from him, feeling utterly alone, separate.
“Who won?” Margot asks as she casts Andy a furtive glance, seemingly hoping that he did. If his wife is going to betray him, at least he can have a good day on the golf course.
Sure enough, Andy flashes a cute, cocky smile, winks, and says, “Who do you think won, Mags?”
“Dude is so lucky,” James says, as Ginny, Stella, and Pam join us in the kitchen, looking delighted to be back in the company of their men.
“Andy won!” Margot announces with artificial cheer as the guys regale us with their golf tales, including a guess-you-had-to-be-there moment when Craig, in a fit of frustration, whacked a magnolia tree with his brand-new driver. More than once. Everyone laughs, except for Margot and me, while Craig makes a proud point of telling us all just how expensive that driver was. Meanwhile, he retrieves four Heinekens from the refrigerator, opening them so rapid fire that he reminds me of a bartender during happy hour—a job I feel pretty sure he never held. He doles them out to Andy, Webb, and James, sucking his own down and, between gulps, wiping the bottle against his forehead.
“So how was
the shower?” Andy asks, seemingly the only man in the room—including the father-to-be—who remembers that the real point of the day wasn’t golf. I add a few points to his good-husband tally, despite the fact that I know he shouldn’t be under heightened scrutiny.
Margot cocks her head, smiles a subdued smile, and says, “It was great.”
“It was so lovely,” Stella and Pam chime in, using the exact same inflection. They exchange a fond, girlfriendy look that makes me long for that dynamic with Margot—and worry that we might never get it back.
“Did you get some good loot?” James asks Margot, in a fake New York accent, rotating his visor a half-turn to achieve his favorite gangsta look.
Margot forces another smile and says yes, she received some gorgeous presents, while Ginny, unable to contain her glee, blurts, “And Ellen got to meet Lucy!”
My stomach churns as I think of how much more gleeful Ginny will be when Margot confides in her the full irony of the situation.
“Is that right?” Andy says, raising his eyebrows in an interested way that would, under any other circumstances, send me into a tail-spin of jealousy and insecurity.
“So what’d you think?” James asks me with his trademark smirk, likely homing in on a golden opportunity to break his mother’s prim protocol.
“She was very nice,” I say quietly, as James, true to form, mumbles something about her “nice tubes.”
“James!” Stella gasps.
“You even know what tubes are, Mom?” James says, grinning.
“I have an idea,” Stella says, shaking her head.
Meanwhile, Andy pretends to ignore the sideshow, kindly doing his best to appear bored with the subject of Lucy—which only serves to bring Margot’s outrage to a fresh boil.
“Well,” she finally says, clearly unable to stand being near me another second. “I’m exhausted.” She looks up at Webb and says, “We probably should go before my Braxton Hicks start up again…”
