by Laura Hankin
“You’ve got it,” she said lightly. “I’m turning into a one-woman secret repository right now. Step right up, world. Anybody else got something for the Claire vault?”
“You’re funny,” he said, still fixing her in his gaze, looking at her as if she had revealed something exciting and strange and he wasn’t quite sure what to make of it, like she’d just told him that she could speak five languages or that she’d hiked all the way across the country by herself.
“Yeah, I’m thinking of going into stand-up,” she said. “I hear that’s a more stable career than music.”
“It would be a shame if you stopped singing. I didn’t get a chance to tell you at the party,” Christopher said. “But you have a beautiful voice.”
“Thanks,” she said.
He brushed his leg against hers so quickly and lightly that she wasn’t sure if it was an accident. But then he did it again. It sent a tingle of desire up the backs of her thighs and a lump of anger into her throat. She swallowed.
“Are you kidding me?” she asked.
“What?” Christopher said, holding his hands up.
“You’re really going to hit on me right now?” She stood up, grabbed her bag from the floor, and tossed a ten-dollar bill on the bar for her drink. “What a pathetic excuse for a person you are. No wonder you’re in here, self-loathing on your lunch break.” His face crumpled into regret, his shoulders sloping forward, and he opened his mouth as if to say something, but she didn’t want to hear it. “Get your life together, and go home to Gwen.”
As she walked through the door and back into the afternoon light, she finally placed what he smelled like. Sex.
Chapter 30
Claire had expected the photo shoot for the coffee-table book to be legit, but the reality blew her away. On Thursday morning, she showed up at a gray building in SoHo. A freight elevator carried her to a loft with enormous windows, which showed jaw-dropping views of the river on one side and the water towers and rooftops of Manhattan on the other. The walls that weren’t covered in windows were exposed brick, painted white. In the middle of the room, a photographer in slouchy pants consulted with Whitney and a statuesque, authoritative-seeming woman who had to be the brains behind the coffee-table book. In a corner, a wardrobe assistant rifled through a clothing rack full of trendy pieces that even Claire, who knew practically nothing about clothes, felt sure were designer. In the background, a playlist of today’s pop hits boomed from a Bluetooth speaker.
An assistant greeted her like she was someone important, offering her a choice of organic tea, cold brew coffee with almond milk, or fresh squeezed orange juice. (She took the coffee, black.) “If you need to drop your baby off while you get your hair and makeup done,” the assistant said, “we’ve got some child wranglers over there.”
Claire thanked her and made a beeline for the free food. A table in the corner held a collection of trendy branded snacks, most involving chia seeds, dried fruit, and various iterations of kale. Amara stood there, her hair and makeup already done, slumping with exhaustion, scowling down at a quinoa, flaxseed, and almond bar. “God forbid they have bagels or muffins,” she said when she saw Claire.
“God forbid,” Claire said.
“Look, I wanted to apologize again for the other afternoon,” Amara said, looking around and lowering her voice. “It wasn’t very kind of me to call you a child or compare you to a nine-eleven truther or any of those things.”
“It’s okay,” Claire said, shifting uncomfortably.
“I care about you,” Amara said, “and I really appreciate how supportive and helpful you’ve been during this shit storm. I know your emotions were running high, and so were mine, but I’d really like to try to forget about . . . everything, and just get back to normal.”
“I’d like that too,” Claire said, and Amara smiled with relief.
The same assistant from before reappeared to usher Claire over to a makeup chair, where a woman in a black smock stared at her face and then consulted a row of brushes and bottles. Another woman stood behind Claire and combed her fingers through Claire’s hair. A thrum of excitement ran down Claire’s arms. She used to imagine that when Vagabond made it big, she’d go to photo shoots like this all the time, that she’d get so familiar with sitting in a makeup chair and having people stare at her like she was their canvas that it would bore her. Well, maybe Marcus and Marlena and the rest of that gang were sick to death of it by now, but as the makeup woman opened a palette box filled with more colors than in a box of Crayola crayons, and then leaned in close, her soft breath in Claire’s face, Claire felt like she was being turned into a work of art.
In the makeup chair next to her, a high-stakes drama in miniature unfolded, as Meredith begged her makeup artist to try something else to better cover up the outbreak of angry pimples on her chin, and the makeup artist responded that she was doing the best that she possibly could. Claire just closed her eyes and surrendered to the tug on her hair in a straightener, the intimacy of another woman brushing cool liquid foundation onto her cheeks.
When Claire’s hair and makeup were finished, the assistant whisked her over to the clothing rack, where a stylist looked her up and down, her eyes sweeping over Claire’s black cotton T-shirt and old jeans, the corners of her mouth turning down in disapproval. As a wardrobe assistant whirled around, pulling tiny, fluffy accessories for the babies—a headband with a (real?) mink puff on it, a lacy shrug—Claire’s stylist rifled through the rack, pushing aside twill and ruffles, faux-fur jackets and silk dresses, to pull out a pair of indigo skinny jeans that resembled the pair Claire was already wearing, just a million times nicer and more expensive. While the stylist turned back to look for a shirt, Ellie emerged from behind a curtain marking off a changing area, struggling to zip up a pink dress, grunting in frustration as she looked down at her bloated stomach.
The stylist handed Claire a seafoam green silk top that was far more adventurous than anything Claire would’ve ever chosen on her own. Then the woman turned to attend to Ellie’s emergency. “We can safety-pin it in the back,” she said, looking over the pink dress. “We do that all the time for people with more natural bodies.”
Claire cocked an eyebrow at the blouse in her hand, doubting that she could pull it off. But when she tugged it over her head and looked at herself in the full-length mirror, she was almost unrecognizable, sleek and glamorous, her flyaways gone, her eyes larger and more luminous than ever before. The particular green of the blouse set off her skin so that it became a glowing ivory. Wearing this blouse (not a shirt!), she belonged with the playgroup women, not as their employee but as their equal. Stick a baby in her arms, and she could have passed for a rich mom, no problem. It was an odd sensation, as if she weren’t looking into a regular mirror at all but into a mirror that showed you a possible version of your future self.
“You look very nice, Claire,” Gwen said from the side. Gwen, on the other hand, still wore her regular clothes instead of something from the fancy rack, with her hair and makeup done the way she always did them, if maybe a little less impeccably than before they’d all stopped taking their TrueMommy.
“Thanks,” Claire said. The memory of Christopher’s leg brushing against hers under the bar rippled through her, making her flush.
Whitney made her way over to the wardrobe area, her Empire-waisted flower-print dress swirling as she walked. Amara, Meredith, and Vicki trailed behind her. “Ooh, looking beautiful, Claire!” Whitney said, and then turned to the rest of the women, gearing herself up as if she were about to deliver the Bill Pullman speech from Independence Day. “I’m so glad that we’re here together today, despite everything. They’re almost ready to get started. And I know we all may be . . . not feeling our best.”
“Understatement of the century,” Amara said.
“But I think this is a really good opportunity for us all to just have some fun with our friends and our b
abies. And, hey,” she said, smiling, “worse comes to worst, they can always photoshop the crap out of us.”
“Okay, mommies,” the statuesque woman in charge of it all called out. “Do your final touch-ups, and then we’ll bring the babies in and get going. Thank you for being an inspiration!”
Amara rolled her eyes. “Yes, we are real Oprah Winfreys over here,” she said, as the other women adjusted their hair in the full-length mirror.
Meredith noticed Gwen standing off to the side. “Oh, Gwen,” she said. “Don’t you want to join in?”
“No, no,” Gwen said, shrinking back. “I’m just here for moral support.”
“It’s going in a book, not online,” Ellie said. “That’s different.”
“I still want to err on the side of caution when it comes to protecting Reagan,” Gwen said. “Especially now.”
“Oh, come on, Gwen,” Ellie snapped. “Don’t make us feel bad about doing something fun! Pervs don’t buy coffee-table books.”
“All right,” Whitney said. “It’s Gwen’s decision.”
“I’m sorry,” Gwen said, her mouth twisting. “I didn’t mean to imply that . . . I’m just really not in a state to—”
“None of us is,” Ellie said.
“It’s not just that.” Gwen shook her head, as if she were already mad at herself for what she was about to say. “It’s Christopher.”
“Oh, no. Do you still think he’s having an affair?” Amara asked, and Gwen nodded. Claire’s heart began to beat faster.
“Oh, my God! What did he do now?” Meredith asked, holding her hand casually over her chin as if nobody would know that she was trying to hide her acne.
“We don’t need to get into it. Not when you all are about to do your nice photo shoot,” Gwen said.
“You matter more to us than the photo shoot, obviously,” Amara said.
“Tell us,” Ellie said.
“Well,” Gwen said, “he was rattled about something last night, and when I asked him what was wrong, he pretended it was nothing and started being overly nice and courteous.”
“Oh, goodness,” Whitney said. “I wish Grant would be too nice to me!”
Gwen grimaced. “I know, it sounds so dumb. But he smelled too clean again too. He said it was the gym, but I just can’t stop suspecting, and I feel like I’m going insane.”
“I was watching him at Reagan’s birthday party,” Ellie said, “and he seemed super devoted to you and the girls.”
Whitney crinkled her brow and put a hand on Gwen’s back. “Maybe you should head on home, go take a little rest or something. Or treat yourself a bit—you’ll probably feel better if you just get a chance to relax.”
“Thanks,” Gwen said. “That seems like a good idea. I’m just being silly. I think I’m extra paranoid after everything that’s happened recently.” She made a face as if she were disgusted with herself. “I’m really sorry, everyone.”
“I don’t know,” Claire said, and everyone turned to stare at her unexpected intrusion. “I mean, maybe if you’re having these feelings, you’re not wrong. You’ve got to trust your gut and all that, right?”
“Ladies,” an assistant said, bustling up to them, “are you ready to go yet? We are on a schedule and want to make sure you get enough time with the photographer.”
“Yes, we’ll be there in just a sec!” Whitney said.
“Claire,” Gwen said, looking at her in a whole new way, fear creeping into her face, “do you know something?”
“No,” Claire said. “No, I guess I just got a weird vibe from him at the party, that’s all, so I don’t think you need to beat yourself up for being silly.”
“Oh, well, yes, of course you shouldn’t beat yourself up,” Whitney said, and then gestured to where the photographer and the statuesque women were conferring, the photographer looking at her watch. “I’m so sorry to do this, Gwen, but we should probably get to it.”
“No, of course. The last thing I want to do is make this photo shoot all about me,” Gwen said. “Reagan and I are going to go. I’m such an idiot.” As she turned to get Reagan, she flashed Claire a painfully familiar look, one filled with such self-hatred and self-doubt that Claire couldn’t stop herself from opening her mouth.
“You’re not an idiot,” Claire said. “I don’t know if he’s having an affair exactly, but he hit on me.”
Gwen’s voice got very soft. “At the birthday party?”
“No,” Claire said, and it was too difficult to look Gwen in the eyes so she turned her head to the side, catching Whitney in her vision, as she continued. “I ran into him yesterday at a bar.”
“But Christopher doesn’t drink,” Whitney said, a spasm of pain crossing her face so quickly that by the time everyone else turned away from Claire to look at her, it was gone. But Claire saw it. And then everything else started clicking into place, even as Whitney kept on talking in a casual, concerned tone. “I chatted with him a bit at your Christmas party, Gwen, and he mentioned it. Why would he be at a bar?”
In the kitchen at the birthday party, Whitney had greeted Christopher with such studied coolness. Her hand had lingered on his shoulder a little too long for someone who had sounded so detached.
“Oh, God,” Gwen said, putting her head in her hands. “I guess he goes to pick up women. I knew something was going on.”
“Hey, Whitney,” Claire said, buzzing with fury from her chest to her fingertips. “How was your massage yesterday?”
“What?” Whitney said, blinking, her eyelashes extra long from her stint in the makeup chair. “I don’t see at all what that has to do with anything. I didn’t get one. I couldn’t find a sitter.” She turned away to lead them all into the center of the room, to where they could sit on a couch and smile as if they hadn’t a care in the world. “Now, I’m sorry, Gwen. I know this is the worst time, but we really need to get started—”
“So then why did you go to the Windom?” Claire asked.
Whitney stiffened and then turned back around. “What are you talking about?” Her face whitened with a realization. “Were you following me?” Claire folded her arms across her chest and didn’t deny it.
“What the fuck?” Amara asked, letting out a dazed laugh. “Why were you following Whitney around?” Claire turned to Amara, hesitating, and Amara’s confused laughter turned to wariness. “Please, don’t tell me it’s because . . .”
Claire held up her hands. “Okay, it’s going to sound a little nuts, but after you said that something was off about TrueMommy—”
“Claire!” Amara said, darting a look at the other women.
“Wait. What?” Meredith asked.
“Nothing!” Amara said, then turned back to Claire, her eyes narrowing. “I told you to just let it go. You said you would.”
“I meant to, I swear, but then Whitney called me, desperate for a babysitter because she had to get some all-important massage, and she was acting extremely suspicious!”
“I don’t care how she was acting. You promised me,” Amara said in a kind of disbelief. “After I stood up for you, kept your secrets, in front of everyone.”
“Secrets? What secrets?” Ellie asked.
“Never mind!” Claire said to her.
Amara kept looking at Claire, that devastating accusation in her eyes. “I told you why it was important to me, to Charlie, and you promised.”
“I know,” Claire said, thrusting her chin up, defensive, trying to push away her shame. If only Amara would just fucking listen. “But if you’d heard her on that phone call—she did not sound normal.”
“So what?” Amara asked, her disbelief turning to anger, her voice scornful. “Did you uncover some vast conspiracy?”
“No, but—”
“Of course you didn’t. You betrayed my trust for nothing,” Amara said. “I cannot fucking believe you. How idiot
ic, to follow—”
“I’m sorry I can’t just ignore my gut when it tells me something’s wrong, like you did for months,” Claire snapped, realizing as soon as the words flew out of her mouth that she’d gone too far. Amara stepped back as if Claire had pushed her. “I . . . I didn’t mean—” Claire began. “I’m so sorr—”
“All right, everyone. You want to know Claire’s incriminating fact?” Amara asked, her spine straightening, her shoulders thrust back. “That ‘Idaho Eyes’ band that Ellie and Meredith like so much—Claire used to be in it, but they kicked her out because she wasn’t good enough.” Ellie’s and Meredith’s eyes widened, and Claire thought that maybe Amara would stop there, which would have been bad enough, but Amara kept going, in a low, devastating tone powered by fury. “Oh, but the best part is that, right before they kicked her to the curb, she hooked up with the lead singer when she thought her boyfriend might have cancer.” This time, everyone’s eyes widened, and Amara turned back to Claire. “Doesn’t feel so great to have people betraying your trust, mucking around with shameful matters you’d prefer to keep private, does it?” she asked, practically spitting with disdain.
Claire felt a wave of nausea rise up in her throat, her eyes start to prickle. “Screw you, Amara,” she said.
“Guys,” Whitney said, desperation creeping into her voice. “Please, everyone is staring at us.”
“Whitney, why were you at the Windom?” Gwen asked quietly.
Whitney swallowed. “Well, I tried to get a massage,” she said, her voice light. “But they wouldn’t let me do it because I brought Hope along.”
“There are plenty of good massage places in the neighborhood,” Gwen said, staring at the floor. “Why would you bother to go all the way to midtown?”
“It’s supposed to be very good. The reviews online—”
“Yes, I’ve read the reviews,” Gwen said, looking back up straight into Whitney’s face. “I was interested in maybe going sometime, because it’s right near Christopher’s office.”
