by Erin Spencer
“Thanks, Mom.” Maddie gives me a quick worried look, then hugs me. I relish it. My little girl is growing up.
As she scampers into the bus, I cross my arms, subconsciously giving myself a hug and thinking about how quiet the house will be when I get home.
Liv
“You look fabulous, my love!” Clarissa says, air kissing me on both cheeks.
“Hello, Liv. You do look ravishing. That dress fits you like a glove.” Alan reaches for my hand and kisses it.
Ugh, when is #metoo going to hit the senior ranks of these centuries-old law firms.
“Oh, this, thanks.” I gesture to my dress. “I got lucky on an eBay auction and the purse is a long ago hand-me-down from my best friend Bex.”
God, I miss Bex at times like this. We’d have a field day making fun of these fussy one-percenters. Even though I’ve been accompanying Ethan to events like this for years, I still feel out of my depth. Before Ethan, the closest I got to a black-tie event with waiters circulating canapes on silver trays was crashing wedding receptions at the Four Seasons in Atlanta—which I’m not ashamed to say Bex and I did a few times. It was definitely the best way for a broke college student to get a free drink. In hindsight, we weren’t being as rebellious as I thought we were. Black tie and fancy hotels were such a novelty for me then; I might as well have been on Mars. But Bex grew up going to cotillions at the country club and five-star hotel ballroom wedding receptions of her dad’s business associates. Even at college, she knew how to act and blend in like she was an invited guest. We got away with it every time.
Ethan gives me a curt look as he leans in to give me a peck on the cheek.
Clarissa laughs a little too loudly. She’s probably already tipsy.
“Darling,” she says to me, “don’t you know one of the perks of being a Treadwell & Sloan wife is that you never buy secondhand. Why on earth would you buy something on eBay? And don’t even get me started on hand-me-downs.”
She turns to Ethan. “Did you know about this?” Then she playfully gives him a little push and champagne sloshes out of her glass. A worried look flashes across Alan’s face as he reaches for Clarissa’s arm to steady her. “Ethan, what are we going to do with our dear little Liv. She is just so…quaint,” Clarissa says with a peal of laughter.
I look around the room nervously. God, I hate these things. Ethan barely even talks to me and we just do the rounds of the room, stopping for banter and superficial exchanges. No one asks me anything about myself, beyond a “How are you?” if even that. But they all have time for Ethan. Questions about a case, what does he think of so and so’s judgment on the such and such case. I tune it all out.
As we make our way to the bar, Ethan whispers in my ear, “Don’t say things like that, please. Really, Liv. I’m a partner. People are going to think we’re having money problems.”
“Why did you leave the session today?” I stop and look at him.
“I told you. The deposition,” he says, miming a hello with a fake smile on his face to someone across the room, then ushers me toward the bar. I know he’s petrified I’ll make a scene.
“You’re coming next week, aren’t you? We wasted £100 on today’s session.”
“I can’t. I’ve got to be in Dubai.”
“What? For how long?”
“I don’t know. I thought I told you already.” He pauses, looking around the room briefly, then continues. “Liv darling, I know you Americans like to talk about feelings and emotions, but I really don’t think we need to be going to those sessions with Emma anymore. We’re fine—just a few bumps along the road, that’s all. Happens to everyone.”
“But what about our trip? Did you forget?” I say, wanting to believe what Ethan’s just told me.
Ethan orders two glasses of champagne from the fresh-faced young man behind the bar. He forgot. Of course, he forgot. He turns to hand me one of the champagne glasses.
“Of course, I didn’t forget about the trip. I’ll be back in time, don’t worry. Let’s do another round of the room. I need to see if David is here from Lewison’s.”
“You go ahead,” I say to Ethan who’s already walking away. “I need to get something in my stomach. Shouldn’t they be circulating canapes by now?”
Ethan melts back into the hubbub of the room. His broad shoulders seem to part the crowd, like some kind of egotistical Moses in a custom-made Savile Row suit. When Ethan finally made partner at Treadwell & Sloane, we had one perfect week of vacation at a luxury resort in Capri. After that, I hardly ever saw him. He disappeared for weeks at a time when late dinners with clients after long days of meetings blurred into each other. I knew he’d come and gone because I’d stumble on a tie discarded on the stairs, or find myself alone at the kitchen table in the morning, drinking coffee surrounded by stacks of his work papers and books that had risen overnight like a paper skyline. One morning, I’d come downstairs and found a pizza box on the sofa with a cold half-eaten pizza still inside. Traces of Ethan, but never Ethan. It seemed as the years went by I spent more and more time alone. Just like I am now. I sigh in resignation and reach for a tray of mini quiches that’s floating by on the outstretched arm of a caterer.
After a few more canapes, I make my way toward the exit to get my coat from the coat check.
“Leaving so soon?”
Shit, it’s Clarissa.
“Oh, um, yeah, I have an early day tomorrow.”
“Let me guess. An eBay auction to wake up for?” She gives me a look up and down, her fake lashes fanning dramatically. “I swear you’re such a riot, Liv.”
“Thanks, Clarissa.” I hope she doesn’t pick up on the sarcastic tone in my voice.
The clerk hands me my coat. Not a moment too soon.
“Call me,” she says in between air kisses. “Let’s go shopping. And I mean Harvey Nicks, not eBay. Believe me, Ethan will thank you.”
“I have to run, Clarissa.”
“Remember, we’re Treadwell & Sloane wives. It’s part of our job to look good for our partners. And by partner, I don’t just mean husbands.” She winks.
The walk from the party to the tube is blustery for a summer evening. Despite the crowded sidewalk, I feel completely alone. Before descending the concrete steps into the station, I drop a text to Ethan.
Have a good time. Need to get an early night.
He probably won’t even realize I’ve left the party. It’s times like this that I miss Bex so much it hurts. I wish I could call her up out of the blue, that I could magically transport myself to her, or better yet go back to the easy days of our childhood before things got so confusing and complicated.
Bex and I endured every emotional hardship together, from the hormonal roller coaster of first crushes to Bex moving to Chattanooga when her dad got a promotion. We spent four crazy years together at college that blurred into the excitement of our first place together in Atlanta. We took our friendship and the freedom of youth for granted, as if neither could ever end. Parties, one-night stands, boyfriends, serious boyfriends then, somehow, marriage.
Bex tied the knot at twenty-five. It took me a little longer to do the same. Ethan and I met in LA and married just as I was turning thirty-one, which for a girl from the South meant I was practically an old spinster. As my grandmother Jackie said at the time, “Better late than never.”
Bex loved Patrick, but her dad definitely didn’t. Considering how close Bex and her dad are, it always bothered her that Patrick didn’t have his approval. Bex’s dad probably always imagined his princess with a “good ole country boy.” A Sundance Kid era Robert Redford with a dash of the Marlboro Man, someone who could chop wood while hog-tying a calf. Even though Patrick was from rural Georgia, he was more at home in spreadsheets and boardrooms than the great outdoors. Maybe her dad just saw all along that Patrick couldn’t give Bex the attention she needed.
Ultimately, the bickering and squabbling of two people who loved each other but had grown apart finally reached nuclear levels. My
heart actually hurt when I thought about how nasty things had gotten between Bex and Patrick in the end. She got full custody of Maddie and kept the house, thank God. After the divorce, her dad never said “I told you so.” He didn’t need to. Unspoken words can be the loudest of all.
Could I handle a divorce? I’m starting to ask myself that question more and more. Thinking about the routine of the next few days, weeks, and months, just more of the same, makes me so anxious and unsettled. There are times when it seems impossible to even get out of bed each morning.
At the entrance to the tube, I look at my phone one last time to see if Ethan has replied to my text, or indeed if anyone might have texted me. Nothing. I make my way toward the long escalator down to the platform and wait for the train back to an empty flat.
Chapter One
Left or Right
BEX
It’s 10:30 p.m. and I’ve been lying in bed for almost an hour now, aimlessly swiping left and right on my old iPhone. Back at it again. You’d think I’d have taken a break from all this since my failed attempt with Sean a few days ago, but the house has been so quiet with Maddie gone, I’ve fallen back into the black hole of online dating. Does insurance cover Tinder induced carpal tunnel syndrome? If this was the first night I’d been doing this, I’d be excited. But it’s not the first night. And I’m definitely not excited. I’m frustrated, and frankly, if I weren’t tipsy on cheap rosé from Trader Joe’s, I’d be crying.
I pick up my long-stemmed wineglass, the only one left from the wedding set that my ex-cousin-in-law Chuck gave to Patrick and me, to polish off the last remaining room temperature gulp, when I spy “Devon.” He has brown hair, dark walnut skin, and a hot bod in Levi’s with a dark green tee that’s just tight enough. He looks mid-forties with a smile that says trouble, and basically, one hundred percent my type. I take a moment to swipe through a few of his photos—sitting on the bed of a pickup truck, with a girl who looks to be his daughter at Café du Monde with the obligatory beignet photo, powdered sugar all over their shirts. So cute. Intrigued, I take a look at his bio, feeling the beginnings of what could actually be excitement brewing in my belly. Finally! Someone with potential! I read that “he’s a woodworker who likes…” In my eagerness, I sit up too fast, splash that last cherished gulp of wine down my nightgown and swipe left. Yes, left. Even though I’ve done this hundreds of times, I can’t ever remember which direction I’m supposed to swipe when I’m interested or not interested, and in my current state of wine spillage, and let’s be honest, desperation—I swipe the wrong damn way.
And…I’m done. I refuse to pay for a Tinder subscription, which means I don’t have access to the “rewind” button. Paying for a subscription would mean that I’m taking this app dating seriously, something I’m just not ready to do. Besides, the reality is that Devon is probably not as amazing as his photos. But the beignet one was really cute.
I toss the phone on top of my white comforter and look up at the popcorn ceiling of my bedroom. I should just delete this app tonight and move on with my real life. She may not be here now, but Maddie is really the only thing I should be focusing on. She still needs me. At least, she still needs me to drive her around. What does it say about me that I’m chauffeuring my thirteen-year-old daughter to the mall so she can hold hands in the food court with a boy from her school while I sit in the car and do crossword puzzles, hankering for a slice of Sbarro pizza? It’s a sad state of affairs, that’s what it is. Regardless, my needs aren’t important right now; hers are. That’s how a good mom should be. Isn’t it…?
On the flip side, maybe I should be in a loving relationship to show her what a healthy adult partnership looks like. Patrick moved on four years ago, after we’d only been divorced for a year. He seems happy enough with Amber, who I actually like a lot which is a surprise even to me. She’s one of those people I would love to hate, but she’s sweet to Maddie, so I can’t complain. But Maddie is at my house most of the time, and I worry she’s missing out by not having a father figure here. I know what an important bond that can be, and I want that for Maddie. But that would mean I’d have to actually meet a guy. Go on a date. Start a relationship. Ugh.
Completely over myself and my lack of a love life, I pick up my phone again. But this time, instead of opening Tinder, I hold my thumb over the icon so it quivers and the x appears so I can delete it for good. Just as I’m about to hit the x, my phone lights up with an incoming call. I hesitate to answer because it’s late, I’m half drunk, my nightgown is soaked in wine and I’m tired as hell, but it’s Olivia so I answer.
“Hey, Liv,” I say, sounding more cheery than I actually am.
“You’re still up? Good! I was hoping I would catch you,” she says with such an upbeat tone I’m instantly skeptical.
“What are you doing up? It’s, what, six thirty in the morning in London? Are you going to work early? What’s wrong?” I rattle off this litany of questions like a hyperactive dog digging for a bone. It’s hard to imagine anything is wrong when she sounds so alive and vibrant, but she never calls this early, or late, as the case may be. In fact, she never seems to call at all; we mostly just exchange texts.
“Well, no…I’m just heading home.”
My eyes narrow. “Why do I sense trouble in River City?” I can’t help using song references. I was a musical theater nerd in high school.
After a moment, Liv lets out a melancholy sigh and my radar is pinged. She’s put out the bait, so I’m definitely gonna bite. Liv’s been happily married to Ethan for nine years. He’s an okay guy, although I’ve never really thought he was right for Liv. But he’s handsome and they live the big city life she always dreamed of having when we were younger. Which is why I’m confused by this “heading home” comment.
“Uh…okay. And where are you heading home from?” I’m white knuckling the phone. If she says anything other than an all-nighter at the office or saving a small child from a burning building, I may jump through the phone and strangle her skinny, swan-like throat.
In a voice barely above a whisper, she says, “Bex, please don’t judge, okay?”
“Fine.” I’m hoping she might have a reasonable explanation.
She doesn’t.
“So, there’s this guy that I met a few months ago at this art thing and we’ve been texting and…”
“What?” I sit up abruptly, accidentally knocking my wineglass into shards as it clinks against my bedside lamp. “Damn it,” I mutter. Thank God the glass was empty. Hate to waste wine if I can help it.
“What’s that noise? Are you drinking in bed?”
“Don’t change the subject. We’re talking about you.” I put the broken bits into a pile on my Real Simple magazine. “Are you telling me you’re heading home from a night with some random dude?” As stunned as I am by this revelation, I’m only human, which means I do love a bit of scandal.
“Well, yes and no. Yes, I’m heading home and no, he’s not random…and look, it’s not that big of a deal. This is like, a onetime thing. I just needed to get it out of my system.”
“Uh-huh.” My voice rings with doubt. Noticing she didn’t really answer my question, I persist. “So, are you sleeping with this guy?”
Liv, ever the evader, ignores the question. “I’ve just been feeling so trapped and Ethan is out of town, again. And, um, the opportunity…presented itself.”
If eye rolling made a sound, Liv would be temporarily deaf right now. I pick up the magazine with the wineglass shards and head to the wastebasket in the bathroom while saying with as much authority as I can, “Liv, you must be out of your mind right now. You’ve always said that Ethan is perfect for you. So, please, if that’s true, don’t mess it up. Take it from me, the single life ain’t a walk in the park.” I take a deep breath as the glass clatters into the metal bin. “Get your shit together.”
I’m feeling pretty good about my lecture, seeing how she hasn’t interrupted me once. I continue with vigor. “Delete all texts from Mr. Art-th
ing. In fact, delete him from your phone, your brain, and definitely your vagina and go back to your real life.” I don’t want to sound too preachy, so I soften up a bit. “You’ve made a mistake, and that’s okay. Just don’t do it again.”
After an extended silence, I check my phone to make sure we’re still connected.
“Yeah, okay, you’re right. My husband is…perfect. That’s what everyone seems to think,” Liv says under her breath. “I said it was just a onetime thing and it is. I’ll delete Francois.”
Mr. Art-thing is named Francois? Oh boy. But, as much as I love hearing I’m right, I feel kinda bad for Liv. She’s obviously going through something.
“How’d that date go last Wednesday with what’s his name, Sean? It was Wednesday, wasn’t it?” She’s trying to change the subject again and this time I let her.
I burrow under my comforter and turn out the light. Where do I even start? Tell her I drove there, parked, and bailed? Even though I just gave her a lecture, I don’t feel like one from Liv right now.
Fact is, there really isn’t much to report on my dating life. I’m on Tinder, Match, Bumble, Plenty of Fish, and OkCupid. I’ve even contemplated signing up for JDate but I’m not Jewish, so there’s that. When it comes to dating apps, I’m agnostic. I’m on all these apps, but I never actually go on dates. I’m on a predictable cycle of non-dating dating which goes something like this:
Phase 1 – Get excited and hopeful. I download all my previously deleted apps, ready to give this relationship thing a shot. For real this time!
Phase 2 – Swiping, matching, messaging, liking, and spending an exorbitant amount of time on my phone. I inevitably see some of the same guys that I matched with on other apps and realize there really aren’t plenty of fish in the sea.
