The Girl I Used to Be: A gripping and emotional page-turner

by Heidi Hostetter

  She turned to leave, but Marc called her back. “Wait.”

  She turned back, hopeful.

  “Are you still planning to wear the red backless dress tonight? The one from Saks?” Marc’s gaze swept from her head to her feet and the question was clear: was she able to wear the backless dress—as in, could she zip it up? Jill reflexively pressed her palm against her stomach as she felt a flood of shame rise from her chest. She’d worked hard, forcing her naturally curvy size-twelve body down to a size six because she knew that’s what Marc preferred, but every day was a constant battle. And this dress had been particularly challenging.

  Because she couldn’t find the words, she simply nodded before turning to make her way to the house. She’d wear what he wanted her to wear. After all, wasn’t that what she’d always done?

  Inside, the house was the explosion of chaos that always preceded one of Marc’s business parties. People were everywhere—caterers, florists, servers. The kitchen floor was a maze of boxes and every inch of countertop space was crammed with platters and linen. Jill had hoped for space to assemble a quick lunch, but a team of caterers had completely taken over and Jill had learned that it was best just to stay out of their way. So she grabbed a bottle of juice from the refrigerator and headed upstairs to run a hot bath.

  In the tub, the hot water and the lavender scent worked its magic. She was still annoyed at what Marc had done, how casually he’d dismissed the party she’d planned, but, as the water in the tub cooled, so did her temper. She’d married a man who was confident enough to change things that didn’t suit him. That, in fact, was one of the things she’d admired most about him, that he knew exactly what—and who—he wanted. A man like Marc could have chosen anyone and it was still thrilling that he’d chosen her. Everything else could be worked out.

  After her bath, Jill stood before the bathroom mirror wrapped in a towel, wondering what to do with her hair. Typically she would arrange a salon blow-out before Marc’s events, but today she hadn’t. She swiped the fog from the mirror and studied her reflection. Besides encouraging Jill to lose weight, Marc had taken an odd interest in her hair. When they met, Jill had worn her naturally brown hair cut short and liked it that way. But Marc had persuaded her to grow it out, and when the length reached her collarbone, he’d arranged for blonde highlights at an expensive salon. Jill had never liked the color, thought the shade wasn’t flattering against her olive skin, but she kept it because Marc wanted her to. To be honest, sometimes she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and was surprised at her own reflection.

  With her hair and make-up done, she padded across her bedroom to her closet, her favorite part of getting ready. As she opened the door, the overhead lights flicked on, revealing racks of dresses, boxes of shoes, and shelves filled with cashmere. She paused to take it all in—the smell of new clothes, the abundance, the possibility.

  Growing up, her parents didn’t believe in wasting their money on children, so they didn’t. Jill’s clothes were thrifted and her toys were used. The year Jill turned seven, Aunt Sarah had gifted her a brand-new Barbie doll and it had changed Jill’s life. She’d immediately set to work creating a wardrobe for the doll: fashioning dresses from strips of paper towel, embellished with poofs of stretched cotton and wraps of scrap yarn. That Barbie had ignited a life-long interest in fashion, and even now, twenty years later, she had to pinch herself when she entered her closet because she couldn’t believe her good fortune. She owned racks of the most beautiful clothes ever created, and every one of them made her feel glamorous and important.

  What difference did it make if fitting into them meant skipping a few meals?

  The red backless dress was another story though. The cut was all wrong for her body, and the shade of red wasn’t flattering. When she’d first tried it on, she’d rejected it, telling the personal shopper that no amount of alteration would make it fall right. But it was delivered to the house anyway and now Marc had asked her to wear it. She would, but she didn’t want to.

  They hadn’t started out this combative, she and Marc.

  In the beginning, they’d shopped together, and it was thrilling. He’d sat outside the dressing room and Jill had modeled outfits for him. She’d twirl, barefoot on plush carpeting, delighted to have found a man who wanted to spoil her. He’d insist that she have whatever she wanted. And she did. She bought cashmere and tweed, and dresses that cost more than she made in a month, and Marc paid for everything. Afterward, he’d take her to lunch at the Boathouse in Central Park, then back to his Greenwich Village apartment to watch the sun set over the city. She’d loved that time with him, and she missed it. Now, he ordered her clothes from a personal shopper’s checklist and had them sent. And it had been a long time since they’d gone to lunch.

  After everything he’d given her, it was a small concession to do as he’d asked.

  As she reached for the dress, she stumbled over a pair of strappy silver sandals on the floor. The shoes were meant to be worn with the dress, but they pinched and were all wrong for an outdoor party. The heels were too high and the straps were too tight. If she wore them, she’d looked ridiculous, like Brittney had.

  Jill slipped on the red dress but reached past the sandals for a pair of flats she liked better. It was a small, petty victory but one she allowed herself anyway.

  Four

  The Summit house was designed for parties and they’d hosted quite a few, but Jill had never enjoyed them. Invited guests were invariably Marc’s friends, not hers. Worse, most of the women had been Dianne’s friends first, and Jill could feel the weight of their judgment from across the room. Once, she’d overheard a coven of them blaming her for ruining Marc’s “perfect marriage” and “traumatizing the girls,” but that wasn’t true. He and Dianne had been legally separated when they began dating, and Jill knew their marriage had been difficult from the start.

  But if Marc’s friends didn’t like her, it wouldn’t be for her lack of trying. Jill had worked to soften the edges of her personality—the swearing, the loud laughter, facets that Marc had called “unrefined.” She restricted her beloved Spice Girls and Wham! songs to earbuds only and even pretended to appreciate jazz when Marc was home. She’d slipped once in three years, a story Ellie still teased her about.

  One night, early in their marriage, Jill and Marc had met another couple for dinner and a show on Broadway. When the show let out, Marc and his friend had trouble hailing a cab because the sidewalk was crowded and the rain made taxis scarce. Jill thought she’d help them out. Pressing the tip of her index finger and thumb together, she’d hailed a taxi the only way she knew how—with a whistle. The sound was so piercing that two cabs had screeched to a halt and Jill turned to Marc, triumphant. She’d never forgotten the look of horror on the other couple’s faces or the twist of distaste on her new husband’s.

  Still, Jill was determined that her marriage to Marc would be a happy one, and everyone knew that good marriages required compromise. In the end, what did it matter if the parties they hosted were for Marc’s circle instead of hers? Or that she never seemed to be quite good enough for his friends? Or that she felt a little bit of herself falling away with every “improvement” Marc suggested? The point was that she’d married the man of her dreams. She’d get through tonight with a benign smile and small talk, just like she got through everything else.

  She checked her reflection one last time in the mirror. Satisfied that Marc would be pleased, she added a spritz of the French perfume she knew he liked.

  Then she went downstairs to find her husband.

  As Jill descended the front staircase to the marble foyer, she heard a soft clatter of dishes as caterers worked in the kitchen and a murmur of voices as they coordinated dinner service. The new flower arrangement on the foyer table suggested guests might be invited into the house after the party, which made Jill uneasy. Because the house had been used as a model, it was available for showings. It wasn’t unusual for minivans filled with property
agents to arrive unannounced or for potential buyers to knock on the door and request a tour. The unexpectedness of it was unnerving, and Jill had never got used to the intrusion. Now the development was finished, Jill had looked forward to their space becoming a bit more private.

  She heard Marc’s voice coming from his office. She crossed the short hallway, pausing outside his door to wait for him because Marc preferred they greet his guests together. They’d be arriving soon, and it wasn’t like him to keep them waiting, so she wondered what was keeping him. The door was ajar, and she peeked inside. Marc was seated at his desk, hands clenched, and his expression twisted into a sneer, as if he were arguing with someone he loathed.

  Dianne. It had to be Dianne. No one got under Marc’s skin faster than his ex-wife.

  Jill remained where she was, shamelessly eavesdropping on his conversation. She knew very little about their relationship and she was curious about what Dianne wanted.

  “It doesn’t matter what she wants or what your overpriced divorce attorney says,” Marc hissed into the telephone. “All I’m required to pay is tuition and I have—four years of Ivy League college for all three girls. Now Rebecca wants me to pay for grad school? Not happening.” He paused to listen, then his words sliced the air. “Don’t you threaten me, Dianne. Put her on, I don’t care. I’ll tell her myself.”

  This was a side of Marc she’d rather not see. Despite what Dianne had done, it was unsettling to witness how vindictive her husband could be. Jill was about to retreat into the kitchen when she heard the change in his voice, the tone he reserved for his girls.

  “Rebecca, honey, I don’t think—” Marc shifted uneasily in his chair. “Yes, that’s true. I did say that.” He listened and after a moment, his shoulders sagged as he closed his eyes. “Of course I meant it, but I’m not sure you appreciate the cost of three tuition payments at once. What if you took a gap year until Sinclair graduates? You can come work for me, and we’ll talk about grad school a year or so from now.”

  Jill knew how the rest of the conversation would go without even hearing it. Whatever the issue, if Rebecca didn’t get her way, she’d pout until Marc gave in. He might argue the cost, but he’d eventually give her whatever she wanted. Despite his feelings toward Dianne, he could be a very generous and loving father, which made his decision not to have children with her all the more disappointing. Jill had always wanted a large family, a house filled with loud chaos—matching flannel PJs at Christmas and family summer vacations at the beach. Intellectually Marc’s decision made sense, especially considering that he would be more than seventy when their first child graduated high school, but Jill’s heart didn’t care. Sometimes, she would come across the social media post of a friend starting a family, or adding to it, and the pain of what she was missing almost felt physical.

  But to be with Marc meant no children. He’d made that very clear. And she wanted to be with Marc.

  Marc’s conversation ended abruptly. Jill nudged the office door open in time to see him throw his cell phone onto his desk and watch it skitter across the surface. He heaved a sigh then motioned for her to come closer.

  “You look good,” he said finally, nodding with satisfaction. He seemed not to notice that Jill had sucked in her stomach as his eyes lingered on her neckline. “I knew that red would be a good choice.”

  “I’m glad you like it.” She stepped closer and felt his arm circle her waist. She held her breath and dropped her voice, hopeful. “Your guests are waiting.”

  But Marc didn’t notice the change.

  “Dianne’s a nightmare,” he groaned. “I’m glad I never have to worry about you.”

  She leaned against him as they walked toward the party, uneasy at how harshly he’d spoken to Dianne but taking comfort in the stability of their own relationship.

  They walked outside together to discover that the yard had been transformed, and Jill’s mood brightened. It wasn’t what she’d chosen, but it was pretty. The bright afternoon sun had given way to the cool blue of dusk. The day’s humidity had lifted, and the air held a whisper of glorious fall weather to come. Lighted hurricane lamps at the tent’s entrance glowed a warm yellow, matching the pinpricks of tealights scattered on tables inside. The pool’s backlit fountain cast the water in shades of soft pink as it splashed over the rocks, adding a gentle wash of color. Inside the tent were tables set for an elegant dinner. Music softly played from inside as the guests made their way across the yard.

  “Not bad, right?” Marc glanced at her for approval.

  She leaned into him. “Not bad.”

  Only the humming video screens near the pool house hinted that Marc’s party might be, in fact, a sales presentation instead of a birthday celebration. Jill ignored them.

  Marc had always made a point to greet his guests formally before every event, to note who had come. And who had not. He’d ordered the caterers to set up a receiving line near the rose garden, so that’s where Jill and Marc headed to greet their guests. The line was long, but it moved quickly. After offering birthday wishes, guests were escorted to the hosted bar and served. Jill hoped the sales presentation would start much later, well after dinner.

  It was a beautiful setting, but still her annoyance lingered, resurfacing to remind her that her party hadn’t been good enough. The idea stung no matter how much she tried to push it away.

  Jill gestured to the pool house, to a sales table staffed with agents from Marc’s company. “That looks new. Is that for the Berkshire development?”

  The Berkshires was where Marc and his company were headed next, though it seemed an odd choice to Jill. The land he’d bought was miles away, in rural Massachusetts, far from their home in Summit and even further from the unsold house in Dewberry Beach. Jill wondered about the expense of managing projects two hundred miles apart. But maybe his business was doing well.

  But he didn’t answer, so Jill repeated her question, this time nudging him. “Hey? Are you guys looking to sell the Berkshire lots already?”

  A flicker of disapproval crossed Marc’s face and Jill knew immediately what she’d done wrong. She’d slipped. Marc had told her many times that the New Jersey slang term “you guys” was crass and he wanted her to drop it.

  But he didn’t correct her, probably because there wasn’t time. His attention was on the trio of approaching party guests. Jill watched her husband’s social mask slip back into place as he greeted them. To be honest, Jill envied Marc’s ability to talk to anyone about any subject; he was smooth where she was awkward, urbane where she was clumsy. But she tried and that had to count for something, didn’t it?

  Forty minutes later, they were still greeting guests, and Jill wondered how her husband could possibly know this many people. Her own social circle was considerably smaller. She shifted her weight as her stomach growled and felt a trickle of perspiration slide down her back. The reception line seemed endless, but thankfully Marc seemed to bear the brunt of it. After speaking with Marc, most people only managed a quick hello and air kiss for Jill, which was fine by her.

  To distract herself, Jill imagined what Ellie would think of a party like this, a tent filled with fancy people she didn’t know talking about things she didn’t understand or care to learn about. If Ellie had planned this party, there would be beer on ice in coolers, cannonballs into the pool, hot dogs on the grill, and probably noise complaints from the neighbors about the stereo speakers they’d dragged outside. It would have been fantastic, and even the thought of it made Jill smile. But her smile faltered, just a bit, when she remembered that she’d left that life behind three years ago when she married Marc.

  An hour later, Marc decided they had greeted the guests that mattered and were allowed to leave the receiving line. Official hosting duties over, he made a beeline for his best friend Cush, and Cush’s new wife Nadia, as expected. Cushman Lawrence’s official title in Marc’s company was Lead Staff Attorney, and their friendship went all the way back to college. The story was that Marc and C
ush had met as fraternity pledges freshman year, and although they’d parted ways after graduation, they’d kept in touch. Cush went on to law school while Marc joined the family business, but the minute Cush passed the bar exam, Marc offered him a fancy title and fired the man who’d held the position for years.

  “Cush!” Marc grabbed his friend’s hand and thwapped him on the shoulder. “How was Freeport?”

  Cush groaned as he threw up his hands, as if he couldn’t possibly put such an incredible experience into words. “Construction is booming down there, if you know what I mean. So much going on that you need to come down, take a look.”

  “Yeah?” Marc lifted his chin. “Better than the Berkshires?”

  Cush grinned. “Let’s just say that the regulations down there are much more flexible.”

  “Did you get the other thing done?”

  “I did.”

  “Okay then. Business trip before the end of the year?”

  “You know it.” Cush clapped his hands together. “I’ll bring my clubs. You bring your wallet for all the rounds you’ll lose.” Then he hooked his arm around Marc’s shoulders and led him away, calling over his shoulder, “Jillian, you don’t mind if I steal your husband for a second?”

  Jill lifted her hands in mock surrender and watched them cross the lawn, leaving her alone with Nadia.

  Nadia was Cush’s second wife, and they’d been married just over a year. She carried herself with an easy elegance that Jill envied. Nadia had had a successful career as a model before marrying Cush. Because she’d come into the marriage with money of her own, she did exactly as she pleased. Nadia hadn’t known Dianne, but Jill hoped that even if she had, she and Nadia might still be friends. There was something genuine in Nadia that put Jill at ease.

  Nadia rolled her eyes at their retreat, her long silver earrings dancing against her dark skin. “Put those two together and they’re like little boys on the playground.”