by Erin Spencer
I cry even harder.
Liv’s voice rises with vengeance. “This is on Stella. Does she have interns doing her background checks? Is she even doing background checks? I’m calling TMZ on her ass. They’ll eat this up.”
I look at her through my tears. Liv is nuts and I love her for it, but I feel too defeated to even laugh about this right now.
She digs a wad of tissues out of her purse. “Don’t ruin your dress! Come on, get up. Pull yourself together and don’t let him see you cry.” As she grabs my elbow and hauls me up off the floor, I tense at the sound of approaching footsteps.
“Is everything okay over there, ladies?” Brad’s voice now just sounds fake and overly friendly. What used to appear as genuine I now see as smarmy and sinister.
I glare at him with the strength of a thousand daggers, and Liv responds with a knowing smile. “We were just looking at a few of photos of you. Looks like wearing that fishing vest isn’t the only crime you’ve committed!” She flashes the screen of her phone his way and he gasps, taking a step back, confronted with one of his own mug shots.
I’m looking at a man who tricked me into believing a relationship, or at least dating, might be possible again. Who made me think that a future might be something I was ready to tackle. Who made me want to break out of my shell and feel sexy again. And it was all one big fraud.
What an asshole. And that’s apart from all the other bad shit he’s done to so many other people.
I’m so mad I could spit. I could curse. I could scream at the top of my lungs! But I don’t do any of those things. I look down at my purse and smile, inwardly thanking Liv for convincing me to bring it tonight. Then I swing it round in a circle like I’m Conan the Barbarian and aim straight for Little Oscar and the Peanut Twins.
Chapter Twelve
Encore Couture
LIV
“Well, here we are again. Two middle-aged women out for brunch. I refuse to talk any more about last night, or about dating. I’m over it.” Bex takes a gulp of her Bloody Mary.
“Come on, we are not middle-aged. And what’s so bad about brunch?” I can see she’s still in shock about what happened with Brad, even though she’s putting on a strong game face. That she ordered a Bloody Mary instead of a mimosa says it all.
“Look, it could have been worse,” I continue in a weak attempt to cheer her up. How do you console a friend who went out on a blind date with a felon wanted in multiple states? “You totally dodged that bullet, um, bait. Sorry, couldn’t help that one. I guess his outfit should have been a sign! What sane man wears a fishing vest on dry land, let alone to a place like The Pearl and The Girl? I should have pulled an intervention right from hello,” I say, taking responsibility for what was, yet again, a disaster of my own making.
“The thing that scares me the most is that even with the fishing vest, I thought we could have had something. I’m tired of this game. I don’t think I can handle any more of it. I’m single and that’s fine by me.”
“Well, you and your bag handled yourself just fine last night. When did you get such a strong arm? You wound that thing up like Babe Ruth. Brad won’t be running to home base any time soon!” It may be too soon to joke about it but Bex’s bowling ball revenge was one of the best things I’ve seen in my life. I wanted to cheer and applaud right there in the lobby of the Spade.
Bex cracks a small smile in spite of herself. “I told you, I don’t want to talk about it. I still can’t believe I let you get me into that mess. Why would you even think that I’d be okay with a millionaire matchmaking service? I’ve told you countless times that I don’t care about all that.” She pauses and gives me a cold look. “I know it means a lot to you. Look at your bag.” Bex points to my Chanel purse. “That probably costs more than my monthly mortgage.”
Bex is taking her anger out on me and after what she went through last night, I don’t blame her. I look at my purse and sigh deeply. She’s right, it probably did cost more than her monthly mortgage. It’s my crutch in London, my little status symbol that helps me deal with women like Clarissa who wield their designer wares as if we live in a logo’d caste system. The purse has become a piece of my armor. Armor I’ve been building around me so slowly, yet so strongly, it’s taken me this time with Bex to see that it’s suffocating me. The LA sunshine and this roller-coaster ride I’m on with Bex is bringing me back to me. For the first time, it feels like I’m taking a long hard look at myself, and I’m a stranger.
“You want to know the story of this purse?” I challenge. A knot is starting to twist in the pit of my stomach, but I ignore it. It’s time to tell Bex the truth. She deserves it, and I don’t think I can hold it in anymore.
“Another sample sale? Hopefully, you haven’t lost another toenail because of it.”
“I wish. I would rather have lost all ten toenails than how I ended up with it.” Bex’s clenched jaw relaxes as she turns toward me with interest, and I continue. “Ethan was in Paris on a huge case that’d he’d brought in shortly after making partner. He felt that this was his moment to prove his worth. I don’t remember what it was all about. A bank in Monaco had been doing dodgy transactions with high net worth clients in France. Some tax thing.
“I was back in London, still unpacking boxes at our new flat in Chelsea. The upstairs neighbors were doing renovations and it was a mess. Workers were stomping in and out of the building all the time. Then, on a Sunday of all days, one of them cracked a main pipe, and I woke up to a gushing cascade of water and crumbling sheet rock that flooded our kitchen. It was a nightmare. Ethan usually deals with the house stuff and I had no idea what to do.”
“What does this have to do with the damn purse?” Bex impatiently takes another sip of her Bloody Mary.
“I’m getting there, hold on. So, the neighbors didn’t think that they should pay for the repairs and tried to offload all the liability to the builders who wouldn’t even speak to me when I’d try to approach them about it. I knew Ethan was busy in Paris building a case against tax scammers, but I needed him to build a case against the builders…” The memory of this still frustrates me.
“I’d texted Ethan dozens of times, but he hadn’t gotten back to me. I know how he can disappear into cases, so I wasn’t too worried. I finally called his hotel, since I wasn’t getting through to him on his cell, and in my best/worst high school French asked to be connected to Ethan, but the front desk refused to put any calls through unless I knew his room number. Which, of course, I didn’t. In my garbled French, I went on to explain that I was Ethan’s wife, Madame Davis. The clerk replied that he couldn’t connect me to the room of Monsieur et Madame Davis and asked again if I knew the room number. I guess because of my bad French he thought that I was asking for Ethan’s wife, not that I was his wife.”
Bex nearly chokes on her celery stick as she inhales sharply. “What!”
I keep going, even though recounting this is killing me.
“I was in shock. Ethan had checked in to the hotel with his so-called wife, probably some twenty-something paralegal or a Parisian temptress he’d picked up there. I called Clarissa in tears, but she didn’t understand why I was so upset. She said it was part of the trade-off. That Ethan and Alan worked so hard, who cared if they had an out-of-town fling. I was Madame Davis, not that random woman in the hotel room, who by now I envisioned to look like Gigi Hadid.
“I sent SOS texts to Ethan, and he finally called back. When I confronted him, he confessed, saying it was no big deal. Like eating a cheeseburger. Those were his exact words! Not something you do all the time, but every now and then you get a craving. When he came back from Paris, he brought me this bag.” I plonk the purse onto the table, “So, this is my consolation prize.”
“Are you fucking kidding me? A cheeseburger!” Bex is outraged. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this? Why’d you call Clarissa instead of me?”
“Because it would have sounded like whining. You’re so busy with Maddie and when it happened you we
re at the tail end of your divorce, and I didn’t want to bother you with my stupid drama. Besides, the whole thing is just too midlife crisis cliché to talk about.” I lean back in my chair, emotionally exhausted.
“Liv, it’s not stupid drama. And fuck midlife crisis. Life is crisis. We’re all living our own crisis, midlife or otherwise. And don’t use Maddie as an excuse. You know you can call me anytime.”
“Thank you,” I say, genuinely grateful.
“How come you aren’t furious? The Liv I know would have had Ethan’s stuff in trash bags on the curb. You sound almost…at peace with it.” Bex shakes her head, perplexed.
“I wanted to go to couples counseling, but Ethan didn’t think we needed it. He said it wasn’t a big deal and I guess I just accepted that as normal. I didn’t have many people in London I could confide in at the time. I was still trying to fit in with his crowd where everyone thought it was vulgar to show emotion. Stiff upper lip and all of that English emotional suppression. I’d moved halfway around the world to build a life with Ethan, I didn’t want to throw it all away. And you know me, I’m stubborn.”
Bex nods her head. “Yup, you are, especially since you’re still with him.”
“I don’t know how to explain it. Something inside me died, the dream I had about marriage. It became a wound in my heart that scabbed into a hard stone. I pushed any hurt away from me—didn’t even process it. Just batted it all away. I learned how to live with numbness.” I stare down into my now empty mimosa glass, which is the perfect mirror of how I feel. Empty.
“Liv, when did you get so lost? You’re my ride or die partner in crime. You should not be feeling like this. I had hoped everything was okay with you and Ethan, I mean, as much as any marriage is good. When you told me about Francois, I was absolutely floored. But now, knowing all of this, I can see it’s been a long time coming.”
Bex pauses to poke around at the bottom of her glass with the half-eaten celery stick before she continues quietly. “I should have told you this a long time ago, but, Ethan hit on me at your engagement party.”
“What?” I stutter in disbelief.
“I’m so sorry. I should have told you, but I waved it off as him being drunk. You were so happy and I didn’t want to ruin that by saying something.”
“Oh my God…” I am completely mortified. It’s one thing for Ethan to “sow his oats” when he’s out of town or when it’s with people I don’t know. It’s another thing entirely when it’s my best friend.
“He seemed so perfect in every way, your very own Hugh Grant, that I just chalked it up to sloppy drunkenness. In hindsight, I should have told you about it a long time ago. It was a mistake for me not to. I’m sorry, Liv. I guess we were both wrong about him.” Bex pauses in deep thought as she wipes the condensation off her Bloody Mary glass. “Listen, I know we’re bff’s and I want you to visit me all the time, hell, I want you to move in, but you have to admit it’s a little crazy that you just dropped everything to come here. You can’t run from your life over there, Liv. You have to face the truth about you and Ethan. Things can’t go on like this. You know that, don’t you?”
I wipe the tears from my eyes. I feel sheepish for dumping all of this on Bex right now. She had dinner last night with a felon, for God’s sake.
“Maybe I will just move in with you.” I signal to the waiter to bring over another mimosa, doing my best to move on from what’s become a very difficult and painful conversation.
“And one last thing.” Bex points to the Chanel. “I hate that purse.”
“I hate it too!” I say, half-laughing, half-choking on my tears.
“That was sooo good. I love brunch life! You know, this whole mimosas on a weekday thing is great. I don’t want it to end.” I lean over and clumsily hug Bex as she’s craning her neck to see if the road is clear to pull away from the valet stand and into traffic.
“Hold on, I’m trying to drive here. How many did you have anyway? Four?” she says to me in mock reproach, adjusting the rearview mirror and joining the stream of cars on Wilshire Boulevard. “I love it, too. We’re lucky to have this time together, even if we haven’t been lucky lately. Reminds me of the good old days. Before all this life and marriage crap got in the way.”
“I miss those Southern boys!” I wail, feeling a little tipsy. It’s not just the mimosas, I’m strangely elated after telling Bex about my problems with Ethan. And also after what she told me about him. I feel lighter, like the burden and internalized shame that’s been smothering me is finally starting to evaporate. “So, where to next?” I clap my hands. “What about the Grove? I really need to find some new jeans.”
“The Grove.” Bex sneers. “That’s amateur hour.”
After a twenty-minute drive through twisting streets, we pull into a strip mall somewhere off Ventura Blvd.
“No valet? Guess this isn’t a popular place.”
“Just you wait. It’s very popular.” Bex hops out of the car. “Come on.”
Behind the small storefront of Encore Couture is a mosaic wonderland of designer labels. Layer upon layer of red soled stilettos that retail for upward of five hundred dollars a pair line one part of the wall. Toward the back, a jungle of fur coats hangs next to a beveled glass display case of handbags straight from the pages of Vogue. An adjacent round table is packed two feet high with stacks of designer jeans in every shade imaginable. There’s even a small bargain box tucked away in a corner simply labeled Miscellaneous Cashmere and Silk.
“What is this place?” I say, my eyes slowly scanning the store, hardly believing the Aladdin’s den of upscale loot. “It’s like the aftermath of Carrie Bradshaw reading Marie Kondo.”
“It’s incredible, I know.” Then in a half-whisper as if we’re in a holy place of worship, Bex continues. “This is the place everyone knows about, but nobody talks about. Holmby Hills socialites come in here to hock their vintage Dior, as if they need the money, and every Oscar nominated starlet comes here to find a gown that no one else will have. This is where a Best Actress nominee got that vintage Halston for last year’s ceremony.”
“So how do you know about this place?” I wonder when Bex—who I had to warn not to wear sweats to the airport—developed such an affinity for high fashion.
“Remember Bernice, my mother-in-law from hell? She had two amazing vintage Gucci dresses. Let’s just say that when Patrick and I were married I borrowed them and after the divorce ‘forgot’ to give them back.”
“Bex! You didn’t!”
“I know, it’s terrible, but I don’t feel guilty. She never wore them, just kept them in storage. So I borrowed them, brought them here, and then Maddie got to go to volleyball camp and science camp. Patrick was being so difficult and we were still hashing out the divorce settlement. I was pinching pennies wherever I could.”
“More like pinching Gucci.” I marvel at her tenacity. “So does Maddie still want to be an astronaut?”
“Who knows. All she talks about lately is wanting to be a YouTube star. I don’t even know what that means! Anyway, put your stuff in here.” Focused on the mission at hand, Bex takes my Chanel bag and turns it upside down, shaking its contents into a plastic Target bag she’s pulled from her own purse.
“Bex…” I say, finally realizing what she’s up to. “Bex, what are you doing with my bag?”
“Do you really want to carry around this albatross of adultery any longer?” she hisses. “I can’t believe you let him see you with this thing. Does he think he can just buy himself out of betraying you?”
She’s right. I know she’s right. I watch her stroll up to the very soigné sixty-something woman behind the counter and start talking about the purse. I turn around and mindlessly riffle through the bargain box, pulling out random sleeves of ridiculously thick cashmere sweaters and slinky silk scarves. I don’t want to explain anything about the purse to the store clerk. Now that Bex—God bless her—has told it like it is, I’m almost ashamed of myself, the way I so easily accepted
Ethan’s infidelity or simply chose to ignore it, like a buzzing bee that I’d hoped would go away and not sting me. If Bex only knew about everything else…I scrunch up the cashmere sweater in my hands and squeeze it hard like a stress ball. I don’t have to tell Bex everything all at once. But I know deep down that I can’t keep living my life the way I am now.
“Oh no, sweetie, that’s a sad color.” A woman in a bright purple ’80s jumpsuit with a glittery belt takes the pale gray balled up sweater from my hands. “This is California. Look outside! Blue sky, yellow sun. Here.” She drapes a fluorescent Pucci style scarf around my head and nods with approval. “Oh yes. This is so Talitha Getty with a dash of Isadora Duncan. Now, give me your yacht face. You’re looking starboard, the Mediterranean wind blowing across your tanned skin, you’re dreaming about the Italian deckhand and wondering if this is the summer your eighty-nine-year-old billionaire husband will finally keel over with a heart attack.” She laughs wickedly. “Now, what else can we do with you?”
“I’m not here for shopping.” I pull the scarf from my head.
“Honey, we are all here in this life for shopping.”
“Really, I’m not.” I gesture to Bex, who’s at the counter, in deep discussion with the woman who’s holding up the purse and inspecting the stitching.
“Oh, now that is a Chanel. Where did you get that? They didn’t even distribute that model in the US. My name’s Sharlene.” She extends a multi-ringed hand, clearly thinking I’m a big spender she needs to woo.
“Nice to meet you, Sharlene.” I turn back to the bargain box.
“Now why is a woman with a purse like that so sad?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Hey.” Bex comes up behind me, looking over my shoulder into the bargain box at a sweater I’m thumbing like a rosary. Thank God she’s back, Sharlene is getting a little too intense. “Do you want that sweater? Because we could buy it even if it’s not in the bargain box.” Bex gives a triumphant smile and discreetly flashes a handful of bills.
