“Well, I do,” he says. “You’re the bravest, most inspiring skier I’ve ever met. You’re the best friend anyone could ask for. You’re a kind, smart, beautiful woman who doesn’t deserve what’s happened to her.”
I shake my head. He doesn’t see how much I’ve deteriorated. How different Liz Sullivan is from Katie Cleary.
“Listen, my timing may not be awesome here, and I can wait as long as you need to. But the reason cannot be Luke. You do not owe him that, and neither do I.”
“He’d lose his mind, Blair.”
“I already told him,” Blair says quietly.
“You told him what?” My heads spins.
“How I feel about you. This is not new for me, Katie. Do you really think I’d have come here like this if I hadn’t? He’s an idiot, but he’s still my brother.”
“What did he say?”
“He was pissed. He didn’t talk to me for three weeks.”
I wish I could say that it doesn’t mean anything to me that Luke still cares, but it does.
“When he cooled down, we kept talking. If I could have just gotten over it, I would have a long time ago. Katie, you had to have known, at least a little.”
And of course I had, but it had been too complicated to even look at. Sometimes, denial keeps us from seeing the good as effectively as it does from seeing the bad.
“I wouldn’t exactly say he’s given me his blessing, but he’ll get over it eventually.”
“Well, glad you two got that whole thing all sorted out.”
“That’s not what I mean and you know it.”
The fact that Blair even felt he could broach the topic with Luke makes me realize something I’ve probably known on some level for a long time. Luke was checked out of our relationship long before he ended it, and if I think he was faithful all that time while he was traveling the world and I was home falling apart, I’m kidding myself. Maybe that was when he met her, the new girl, whoever she is.
“Just come home. I understand that you needed to get away. I know it’s been hard, but you have a life back home, a career.”
“Not anymore I don’t.”
“You could get it back if you wanted to. Everyone misses you.”
I shake my head. “This shit with Penny, it broke my brain, it broke me.”
“You have access to the best sports psychologists in the country, Bomber, if you want them. But look, if you don’t want to go back to racing, then don’t. There was always going to be an after. I’m going to be lucky if I have two more seasons, there’s no way I’m making Sochi. We all have to move on at some point. Life’s not over when skiing ends.”
“What will you do? The school?”
Blair smiles. “My dad is already signed on as an investor.”
“That’s awesome, Blair, honestly.”
“And I mean if you wanted to be part of it, I . . .”
“Blair.” I can’t let him project this impossible future onto me, it’s too painful. “I’m pregnant.”
For a moment; he’s frozen in shock. “I . . . oh wow. Okay, um . . .” He rakes his hand through his hair.
“You met him.”
“That guy?” He sounds appalled. “Are you guys even together?”
“It’s complicated. I haven’t told him. I haven’t really decided what to do yet.”
Blair goes quiet.
“It was an accident, obviously.”
“So are you going to . . . like, move here?”
“I honestly have no idea. I feel pretty lost at the moment.” As I say this my eyes well up, and before I know it a flood of tears comes pouring out.
“Come here,” he says. What have I done to deserve him? “Look, Katie. Obviously I want you to come back. But if you stay here, I’ll visit you every time I’m in the Southern Hemisphere, okay? Nothing is conditional with me, now or ever. If you come back as my friend, I’ll be a lucky man. If you come back as something more . . . there isn’t even a word for how lucky I’d be.”
“But what if . . . I mean, what about . . .”
“I love you,” he says, pulling back from me and moving my hair out of my face. “We’ll figure it out.”
Liz Is Not Liz
BLAIR LEAVES two days later and I say goodbye to him at the bus station, giving him a brief kiss and a long hug, promising to think about everything he said and call him soon. I ache watching him go.
I don’t hear from G for a few days after Blair leaves. I text him a couple of times, but he’s silent. He’s punishing me.
“That guy is an emotional terrorist,” Cali says when I tell her this. “Consider me officially Team Blair.”
“We’re not . . .” I say, “Blair and I . . . I mean, well . . .”
I feel my face get hot, and Cali laughs.
“Whatever you say, Blushy McBlusherson.”
“It’s just all so beyond fucked up, Cali. What? I’m just going to raise my love child with my ex-boyfriend’s brother and live happily ever after?”
She shrugs. “Life is weird. I mean, do whatever’s best for you and—”
“I haven’t decided yet,” I tell her before she can say the baby.
“What I’m saying is don’t get caught up in appearances. Who cares? If there’s any upside to being a pariah, it’s that we no longer need to try to live up to anyone else’s expectations.”
That night, we’re lounging by the pool at Edward’s, trying to figure out what to do with our evening, when Gemma convinces us to go into Puerto Madero. Anders is with us. I haven’t had a chance to talk to Gemma about it, but I gather maybe she’s decided to give him a real chance. Edward mentions that G said he’d try to stop by. I’m on edge hoping he’ll come, dreading it too.
I haven’t spent much time in the old port neighborhood, other than to take the occasional tour group through there. It spans the somewhat homely waterfront of the churning brown Rio de la Plata. It was once an actual port but never a terribly functional one, and it hasn’t been used as such since the 1920s, when the new port was completed.
“You know I don’t care for that place, Gem, it’s a tourist trap. It’s like being in Buenos Aires without being in Buenos Aires,” Edward says, tipping the last of the bottle of Malbec into Cali’s glass before immediately pulling another one from where he’s kept it at his feet.
“There’s a Hooters there,” Anders says.
“And a TGI Fridays,” I add.
“There is not!” Cali says, and we both nod. I cringe picturing the glaring neon lights of their signs refracted on the river. Seeing these sorts of American stains on beautiful foreign cities is so depressing.
“You’re all being snobs! There are plenty of gorgeous places in Puerto Madero. Some of the best galleries in the city are there, and I can never get any of you to go with me.” Gemma is pouting.
“Well, the galleries are closed right now, love,” Anders says, taking her hand indulgently.
“But these girls haven’t even been to the Faena yet!” she protests. “It’s one of the most beautiful expressions of Philippe Starck in the world.”
“Well, fine,” Edward says, as though he alone gets to decide. “We’ll go there for cocktails in the Library Lounge. I’m not in the mood for the precious food. Let’s get a steak somewhere before we go.”
“Speaking of precious,” Gemma says.
Edward gives her a look. There’s a strange vibe tonight that I can’t quite put my finger on. I feel a bit like we shouldn’t venture so far from our regular haunts tonight. Both Gemma and Edward seem like they’re on a mission: what that mission is, I’m unsure.
“Fine,” she continues. “Library Lounge is my favorite place there anyway.”
When we arrive at the Faena, I have to agree that it’s worth seeing. The whole place is dimly lit and vampiric, and the moment we walk through the doors and down the long, narrow hallway with its bloodred carpet, it feels as if we’re walking through the chambers of the city’s literal heart. Gemma is visibly cheered by o
ur awe and holds court as we walk around, telling us all about the architecture and the collaboration between the two iconic designers: Alan Faena and Philippe Starck.
“This,” she says, taking us into the dining room, which is a stunningly all-white contrast to the deep, dark hues of the rest of the hotel, “this is pure Faena right here. He’s known for never wearing anything but all white. I met him once in London, he’s such a character.”
I realize as Gemma continues to gush about the design—and even after we’re seated in the cozy library bar with its eye-wateringly expensive cocktails—that every detail she mentions seems to tie back to some story of Gemma’s old life. The other Faena Hotel and Art Basel, the gallery launch where she sat next to Philippe Starck in London. I realize we’re here because Gemma is homesick.
We’ve scarcely been sitting ten minutes when Gemma runs into someone she knows.
“Gemma!” A tall brunette in an architectural-looking dress strides over to embrace her. Gemma is on her feet with a smile plastered to her face, trying to mask her alarm.
“Lucy!”
“Gem, my god, is this where you’ve been?” The woman’s face, I notice, doesn’t register the delighted surprise of someone who’s unexpectedly run into a friend abroad. Her look is more shock and confusion.
Gemma dodges the question by turning to introduce us. I hear Edward muttering, “I knew it.”
“Come meet my friends, Luce. Well, perhaps you know Edward already.”
“I haven’t had the pleasure, actually.” Edward stands too, and soon the rest of us are awkwardly, uncertainly on our feet. Lucy looks utterly perplexed as Gemma introduces each one of us as simply “a dear friend,” even Anders. As he leans forward to shake her hand, he puts his free hand on the small of Gemma’s back possessively. He doesn’t want to be introduced as a friend.
Lucy looks aghast. “Gemma, you haven’t.”
“Lucy, let’s go chat for just a moment, hmm?” Gemma desperately ushers her away.
She hustles her off quickly but not so quickly that I don’t hear Lucy mention “Thomas and the girls.” And it becomes clear to me that I’ve always known Gemma was hiding something, and of course, we all have been, haven’t we? Except, seemingly, the great bachelor of the ages, Edward.
Cali and I exchange bewildered glances—Edward is shaking his head and avoids looking at any of us. No one says a word until Gemma returns several minutes later looking distraught. She heads straight to Edward’s side, and I feel a pang for Anders that she didn’t come to him.
“Oh, Edward, Lucy won’t say anything, do you think? She’s a friend, she wouldn’t.”
“I don’t know, Gemma. I don’t know Lucy from a hole in the ground.”
“Come on, love,” Anders says, gently taking her arm. “Maybe we’d better leave.”
“Yes,” Edward says. “Let’s go home. Gem, we’ll talk about this later.”
By the time we get back to Belgrano, despite Edward’s pleas to her to drop it and Anders’s increasing and obvious discomfort, Gemma is so shaken by seeing Lucy that she seems unable to let it go. Cali loses her patience before I do.
“Do you guys want us to leave? Because this is getting really awkward, so maybe Liz and I should go. Unless someone would like to explain to us what, in the general hell, is going on?”
Anders and Edward look expectantly at Gemma, as if to say: your call, throw your friends out or tell them the truth. Gemma turns to us and I can see her attempting to recover her sparkle a bit.
“Well, girls, as you’re aware no one really knows I’m here, other than our darling Edward. But the thing is, Lucy runs in the same circles as my ex, Thomas, and so now we’ve got a bit of a problem on our hands.”
“Why does it matter if Thomas knows where you are?” Cali asks. “I mean, it’s none of his business, is it? He’s your ex.”
“Well, the divorce isn’t . . . completely final.”
Gemma buries her face in her hands.
“What does that mean, Gemma?” Anders asks.
My brain struggles to track this new information: the reason Gemma is hesitating about Anders is because she’s still married to someone else.
“Did you know?” Anders takes a menacing step toward Edward.
“Of course not,” Edward spits out. “Gemma! Dear god. Do you realize what you’ve done? He could take the girls away, permanently!”
Now both men are standing to one side of her and Gemma has collapsed into the Eames chaise by Edward’s fireplace, prostrate, with her sobbing face buried in her forearms on the armrest.
The girls. Of course. There was Lucy’s mention of them and the strange moment in the courtyard, Mummy misses you and loves you very much. I realize I’ve known it for a while: Gemma didn’t only leave behind a maybe-not-so-ex-husband—she left behind her kids.
“So how old are they?” I ask. “Your kids?” My voice, as I hear it, sounds eerily calm. For a moment, there’s a hush, and Gemma lifts her head and meets my eyes.
“Eight and six,” she says. “My angels. My whole world!”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Cali says, catching up now, not having the benefit of having heard the phone call, which it occurs to me now, Gemma lied about so swiftly, so seamlessly. “You left your kids?”
“I didn’t leave them, for god’s sake.” Gemma’s on the defense now. “I’m going back. I just need some time. You don’t know what it’s like! Thomas’s family and mine, they’re just going to think I’m some selfish harlot. I needed a moment to breathe, to strategize.”
“You lied to us,” Anders says.
“Don’t be dramatic,” she says. “Everyone here has a story. If I’d told you the truth from the outset, you’d have written me off!”
Not telling us she has kids seems not to constitute a lie of omission but a complex and detailed fabrication, of a variety that I’m far too familiar with. I feel something inside of me come loose, my mind racing ahead of me with a thousand tiny conspiracy theories.
Gemma switches again from angry to distraught, her eyes welling with tears. “I just wanted a chance to have some allies, to have some friends who don’t look at me like I’m crazy. This has been the worst time in my life. And if you’d known I left my kids at home with their dad while I went gallivanting off, you’d think I was the worst mother in the world!”
It takes me a moment to realize why everyone has suddenly gone silent and is staring at me, their faces looking alarmed. I only hear myself belatedly, only realize after they do that the sound is coming from me: a horrible, hideous, mirthless laughter.
“The worst mother in the world!” I say. It’s all erupting and I’m powerless to stop it. It’s as though I’m watching myself at a distance. I feel Cali’s hand on my arm, as a caution or as a comfort, I don’t know, but I’m wild now and I want neither; I shrug her off. Suddenly, I’m on my feet. “You’re right though. We’re all liars. You know what? I’m not even Liz Sullivan,” I continue. “I’m Katie Cleary.”
Gemma looks helplessly to Edward, who won’t make eye contact with her. I feel touched that he’s obviously never told her; I’d wondered. She looks back at me, baffled.
“Honey,” Cali says softly, sounding as though she’s a hundred miles away. I keep staring at Gemma.
“One-time Alpine skiing champion? No? Nothing? Didn’t make the news where you were, I guess. Well, I told you that I had to stop skiing because I got injured, and that’s true. But I didn’t tell you why I got injured, or why I decided not to just rehab and keep going, which believe me, I want more than anything in the world to do. But my mental game is shot, probably forever at this point. And that’s because of something that happened nowhere near the mountain. Would you like to guess?” I ask, vaguely aware that I’m wildly overreacting but so filled with a righteous rage that I can’t stop. Suddenly, all I can see are Gemma’s lies, the charm, the manipulative veneer—I’m not talking to her anymore, I’m talking to Penny. She shakes her head. “My sister, Penny Cleary-Gr
anger, is one of the most infamous women in America, Gemma. A year and a half ago, while I was on a flight home, she murdered her daughter. And what’s more, she was acquitted. So I’m afraid Worst Mother in the World is a title that’s already been claimed.”
Liz Gets the Full Story
THE NEXT day, Cali asks me to meet her at Recoleta Cemetery. Amazingly, she’s never been. We get large coffees to take with us, and for a while we quietly stroll and make small talk: commenting on the briskness of the day and the beauty of the extraordinary cemetery with its vast marble mausoleums built side by side like a small city, with narrow cobblestone corridors running in between. We pass Evita’s grave, and though it’s relatively nondescript, it’s surrounded by a clutch of tourists snapping photos.
“Huh,” Cali says, as we stand there for a minute before moving on. “It’s kind of the Mona Lisa of this place. All hype.”
“Come on, I’ll show you one of my favorites,” I say, and a few minutes later, we approach the family pantheon of Dorrego-Ortiz Basualdo.
“This is more like it,” Cali says, taking in the ornate candelabra with the sculpted marble woman beside it. “This looks like a nice place to live, let alone be dead in.”
For a moment, we’re quiet.
“So . . .” Cali says. “Are we going to talk about last night or nah?”
I smile and shake my head. “Gemma.”
“She was really upset after you left,” Cali says. After my tirade, I’d stormed out and gone home alone with my righteous indignation.
“She hit a nerve. A few different nerves, actually.”
“But you hadn’t told her any of that, had you?”
I shake my head.
“God, I must have sounded deranged.”
“Only a little.” She smiles.
“I just . . . I guess I find it hard to be sympathetic to someone who’s in a mess of her own making.”
“Well, that’s the other thing,” Cali says. “You didn’t really stick around for the whole story.”
We Came Here to Forget Page 29
