“Good morning, Momma. I need coffee!” he whined, stretching out the “eeeeee” in “need” to pad his plea. Eliza smiled. She realized that he must be fixing his own coffee at school, but she didn’t mind. She loved being needed. From his eyes she could see he was suffering from more than exhaustion.
“Don’t tell me, you kids went out last night after Dad and I went to sleep.”
“Yup. We went to the Buckboard.”
The Buckboard was the local watering hole where the high school kids hung out and drank. Some parents were against them going there—there had even been a huge back-and-forth on the bulletin board about it years ago—but in contrast to her usual m.o. as a helicopter parent, Eliza never cared. She felt that it was safer for her kids to buy a drink or two at a bar in town with their fake IDs than to binge-drink ten in someone’s basement. Plus, the advent of Uber had nearly eliminated her concerns about their driving under the influence.
Eliza handed Kevin two cups of coffee.
“Bring one up to your sister and tell her to get down here ASAP.”
She was happy to delegate, as waking Kayla was Eliza’s least favorite parenting responsibility. Plus, even at nineteen, Kevin was delighted to have permission to annoy his sister, evident in his devilish smile as he left the room.
“I forgot to tell you, I invited the new neighbors,” Luke said, nonchalantly.
Eliza turned ashen. He noticed.
“Uh-oh. Did I goof?”
“No, no, it’s fine,” she lied, realizing for the first time that she hadn’t mentioned any of what she had seen or done to Luke. Which made her realize that the whole thing was really not all right. Luke had a true moral compass, and if it was kosher she would have told him for sure.
Luke helped her carry more muffins to the table when the doorbell rang. As if on cue, it was the neighbors. Well, half of them at least. Mr. Smith.
“Hi, I’m Joe Smith, from next door,” he declared with an outstretched arm, a bottle of rosé, and an excuse regarding his wife. “I’m afraid Ashley can’t make it. When I left, she was in a dark room nursing a migraine.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Luke commiserated. “Eliza has developed migraines too lately. Sometimes she can’t leave the house because of them, right, honey?”
It took Eliza a second to remember that, on multiple occasions, she had used a migraine as an excuse to stay home. She looked at her husband’s face. It showed genuine concern for her suffering. Eliza felt awful.
“Yes, I have. They’re no fun. Hopefully we will meet another time.”
She crossed her fingers as she said it. She was relieved Mrs. Smith hadn’t come. She was worried that she’d like her and feel even guiltier, or that Ashley Smith would somehow read on her face what she’d done. Eliza brought his neighborly offering to the kitchen just as her old friend Marjorie Tobin arrived and suggested they open it. Eliza looked at the clock, 11:00 a.m. Too early? she thought.
Marjorie had a different agenda. “Where’s your corkscrew?”
Eliza smiled and handed it to her. It was a party after all.
After Eliza took a sip, Marjorie tested her to see if she’d heard the news.
“So, when’s the last time you spoke to Mandy?”
“I don’t remember. You?”
“I guess you don’t know then?”
“Know what?”
“Come upstairs,” Marjorie ordered. Eliza followed her as Marjorie went right to Eliza’s desk. Marjorie had gone to high school with Eliza and her across-the-street neighbor, and best friend, Amanda, or Mandy as they had always called her. They all knew their way around her house as if it were their own. The three of them were once very close, though as was often the case with odd numbers, one person felt left out—that person was usually Marjorie. Except on Halloween. On Halloween they would always trick-or-treat as a threesome: the sun, the moon, and the stars; Snap, Crackle, and Pop; Marsha, Jan, and Cindy. One year Eliza’s mother suggested they be the Three Musketeers. They put their own spin on it and dressed as three Three Musketeers chocolate bars. It infuriated her mother—which Eliza knew it would. Birdie didn’t care for candy, actual or costumed replicas, and would try to bribe Eliza every year to skip trick-or-treating. It never worked. Eliza would stockpile that candy under her bed, giving her sweet sustenance until at least Christmas.
“Google Amanda’s husband,” Marjorie instructed Eliza. Marjorie was a bit of a gossip—it was probably the reason Eliza never even hinted to her that she was having trouble leaving the house. She still loved Mandy like a sister, and though she would be the first to admit she’d been jealous of her at times, she always wanted the best for her.
Eliza typed in “Carson Cole,” and the page filled up with the morning’s news. It all seemed to stem from accusations against Mandy’s husband, Carson, in an article in the Los Angeles Times:
CARSON COLE’S CASTING COUCH
Hollywood has been rocked once again by sexual assault allegations, this time against film mogul Carson Cole. The accusations allege that Cole pressured women to perform sexual favors in return for roles in his films. So far, seven women have come forward with similar stories. A representative for Cole denied all charges, saying that these incidents were consensual.
The article went on to detail the accusations, reporting that they had allegedly taken place over the past decade. As far as Eliza could see, there was only a small mention of Amanda and her two daughters—just that he was married to the former actress and the ages of their children.
Marjorie shook her head. “I feel bad. You know we may not live exciting lives like hers, but at least we don’t have to worry about our husbands being unfaithful. We don’t, right?” She laughed a little.
“I don’t think either of us has anything to worry about. But I guess you never know.”
As Eliza stood to go back down to her company, she noticed Ashley Smith exercising on her stationary bike. Migraine my ass, she thought, before pulling out her phone to message Mandy.
She only needed two words:
Come home.
* * *
—
That night, in bed, Eliza tossed and turned, reliving the day with all of its ups and downs. She would have thought that her discussion with Luke in the kitchen or the awful thing that was going on with Mandy would have been at the forefront of her restlessness, but it wasn’t. She’d been obsessing about the lying woman next door. It was so much easier to think about nonsense.
When the Smiths had moved in, Eliza dragged herself out of the house to drop off a welcome note and her signature gift, a Hudson Valley Candle, from a beautiful little store in Cold Spring that makes them. She’d stockpiled a bunch for hostess gifts and whatnot, giving the new neighbors her last precious candle. They never even bothered to thank her; it was another point in the ongoing tally of why Mrs. Smith sucks, mitigating any remorse regarding her salacious post.
Her phone pinged, and she grabbed it, thrilled for the distraction. It was Mandy, responding to her text. It read, See you tomorrow!, followed by an emoji of her head exploding. Poor Mandy. More emotions cluttered Eliza’s brain.
Curiosity and the need to be distracted got the better of her. She gave up on sleep and snuck quietly out of the bedroom to her hallway office. She knew it was pathetic, but the bulletin board had remained unchecked since that morning and she figured it would clear her head so she could return to bed in peace.
She pulled up Valley Girls first and read the latest explosive post:
“Like” if you put your underwear back on immediately following sex!
Eliza had never thought much about it, but she couldn’t get her panties back on soon enough after she and Luke had sex. She would search for them in the covers in the dark like a madwoman until the deed was complete and they were safely in place, closing up shop. Apparently, according to this poll, she was in the
minority. If she believed the comments, she may have “internalized labia loathing.” She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She flipped to the bulletin board. The cheating post had sadly lost its steam. She couldn’t take it. She needed to do more.
The party and its planning was behind her; her kids would return to school tomorrow and she would be left lying in bed watching the changing patterns of light on her ceiling as the sun peeked in through her bedroom blinds. Screw that cheating unappreciative Ashley Smith and her fake migraine. She deserved to be sacrificed for the cause. She typed with a vengeance:
Anonymous: He came back again early this morning on a run. He confronted me about my post; his wife must be on this site, too. If you are reading this, I’m sorry. He says you have not had sex in months, and you have an open marriage. I know men say that. I wish I knew if it were true.
She pressed Post and read it over in situ. The excitement broke through the numbness, and for a fleeting moment she felt alive. Lately she had taken to scraping her thigh with her bathroom razor until it bled to get that effect. This seemed better.
Other insomniacs immediately began commenting, but Eliza felt satisfied and thankfully sleepy. She turned off her computer and headed back to bed.
CHAPTER 11
Amanda Cole
It is commonly said that a woman leaves an abusive relationship an average of seven times before she leaves for good. The first time Amanda tried to leave Carson Cole was just after they were married. It was the first time he had shown his other side.
They were having dinner at the famed Beverly Hills eatery La Scala with an actor that he was touting as the next George Clooney, and his girlfriend. The three of them—Amanda, the actor, and his girlfriend—were contemporaries, while Carson was a good deal older, and in the case of the actor, shorter and balder. Both Amanda and the actor had come to LA around the same time. About halfway through their first course, signature La Scala chopped salads, they figured out that they knew each other from an acting class that both had briefly attended. The more they reminisced about the class, the shorter Carson’s fuse became. By dessert, when they connected over a band that Carson had never heard of, jealousy all but strangled him. He reached under the table and squeezed Amanda’s leg quite painfully. She was meant to somehow keep silent about it but it hurt, and she shrieked. The entire restaurant seemed to stop and stare.
“I’m so sorry, I got a cramp,” she lied, as her eyes filled with tears.
That night she packed up a suitcase and escaped to the Beverly Hills Hotel, where she had once waited tables at the Polo Lounge. She still knew the manager there. But, like everyone in Hollywood, Carson knew him better. The next morning, Carson came to get her with a dozen roses and two dozen apologies. He promised her that it was not his way, that his new picture wasn’t doing well, and the pressure had gotten to him. He admitted to feeling insecure and overcome with jealousy. He begged her to not to leave him and promised to behave. And he did, for quite some time.
The next time she left, she only got as far as the basement. She stormed out of their bedroom after a fight in which he hurled a barrage of insults at her, including that she was stupid, worthless, and incapable of accomplishing anything on her own. She slammed the front door, but in truth she just retreated to the downstairs screening room. It was late, and she was tired and didn’t want to leave the house. She heard him stomping around yelling out loud to himself, “Let’s see how far you get with whatever cash is in your pocket.”
She cued up a bunch of divorce movies and fell asleep somewhere between War of the Roses and Heartburn. She may have had the guts to really go then, but she was pregnant with their first daughter, Pippa. She had yet to tell Carson. The next morning, she scheduled an appointment at an abortion clinic out in Calabasas. In the end, she couldn’t go through with it and never told Carson what might have been.
The squeeze of her leg wasn’t the only time his rage had become physical, but he was never violent enough to give her real ammunition against him. After hurting her, he would taunt her in a condescending voice, saying, “Oh, I pinched you too hard? Poor Amanda.” It was always just violent enough to belittle her reaction to it. He was way too smart to ever let the words “Carson hit me” come out of her mouth.
Amanda was often the butt of his sexually explicit jokes; his favorites were always the ones that came at her expense.
“We are going home to bed. Anyone want to join us?” he would ask a group of young actresses at a party. Or “Look how well-trained my wife is!” to a group of men in response to her bringing him a drink. He was too full of himself to notice how uncomfortable it made others feel, let alone Amanda, who became instantly mortified. When she spoke out, he would cut her down further, insisting that it was her insecurity talking. He would never accept the blame for her feelings of inadequacy.
As far as other women were concerned, Amanda knew that Carson could get grabby, especially after a couple of drinks, but she had no idea of the extent of it. She often witnessed his hand grazing a woman’s buttocks in a way that could be deemed accidental only the first time it happened, not the second or the third or the twentieth. Once, at her birthday dinner with a table of her friends, Carson became so handsy with their young waitress that it decimated the night. When she approached the table to inquire about dessert she stood as far from him as possible. He got up to go to the men’s room, pausing at her side to listen to the choices. As he stepped behind the poor girl and began massaging her shoulders, all appetites were lost. It was painful to watch, heartbreaking really, yet no one stopped him. The entire table, Amanda included, just sat silently as the young waitress rattled off the list of desserts like she was calling out casualties of war. By the time she got to the tiramisu, a lone tear formed in her eye and rolled down her cheek. She ran off to the kitchen while a clueless Carson headed to the men’s room. One of Amanda’s friends’ husbands handed the manager a hundred-dollar bill for the waitress with an apology, but no one stood up to Carson. If asked, he would probably say it was absurd, and that the waitress appreciated his kind gesture, that she enjoyed having the great Carson Cole’s hands kneading her tired shoulders.
A few days later, Amanda ran off to Disney World with the girls. She surprised them at school with packed bags and promises of breakfast with Cinderella and dinner with Minnie Mouse. Her youngest daughter, Sadie, had insisted on going on the teacup ride three times in a row, and when they were done, she vomited on Amanda’s sandals. While she was washing the remnants of regurgitated funnel cake and cotton candy from between her toes, Amanda heard them yell, “Daddy, Daddy!” and they both ran into their father’s arms. He had followed the charges on her credit card and found them. He whispered in Amanda’s ear, “If you ever pull anything like this again, I’ll have you charged with kidnapping, and you won’t even be able to get a job here as Dopey.”
After that her mind turned from fantasizing about leaving him to fantasizing about his death. She would lie in bed thinking of the phone call from Cedars-Sinai saying, “Your husband had a massive heart attack,” or of a policeman at their door, “Your husband’s car swerved off Mulholland Drive.” Then she could be the lovely widow, and her marriage would not have been a failure, like her parents’ marriage was.
The girls both idolized their movie-making father, and the feeling was mutual. How they saw him meant more to Carson than a dozen Oscar nominations. Because of this, he was careful that they only saw “good” Carson. The loving husband that sent their mother flowers weekly and for no apparent reason. The doting dad, who, upon hearing his daughter choose her Wonder Woman action figure for show-and-tell, arranged for Gal Gadot to show up to class in full costume. The famed producer had such an eye for talent, art, and entertainment that Variety dubbed him “Hollywood’s Napoleon,” his diminutive size and impish looks contrasting greatly with his immense power.
Until the “Time’s Up” movement encouraged his previously whispere
d-about behavior to be shouted from the Hollywood Hills, and thus a window was created through which his wife could orchestrate her escape.
Luckily, when the news broke of Carson’s predatory behavior, Amanda was in a really good place to stand on her own two feet. She had begun seeing a therapist a year earlier and, with her help, developed the ability to ignore the disparaging things he said and believe in herself again. She was feeling stronger than she had in years. While there was no leaving the great Carson Cole before—not in one piece, that is—she was confident she could get out on the momentum of the scandal and his public crucifixion. With the world watching, he would have no choice but to behave civilly.
A woman leaves seven times before it sticks. She stopped counting the times and decided that whatever one this was, time was most definitely up. She packed four suitcases: one each for her and her girls and one filled with resale gold—Louis Vuitton and Birkin bags that she’d been collecting for this very occasion. She stuffed her carry-on with gift cards and piles of cash she’d been stockpiling ever since the night she heard him yelling, “Let’s see how far you get with whatever cash is in your pocket!”
She reserved three seats on a morning flight out of LAX. By nightfall they would be across the country in Hudson Valley, standing in the safety of her childhood bedroom, her daughters arguing over who would get the top bunk. Eliza’s text flashed up, Come home, and she exhaled in relief, responding, See you tomorrow!
At first she followed it with a smiley-face emoji, but on realizing she no longer had to pretend everything was copacetic, she deleted it and replaced it with an exploding head. The small act of candor spurred a real-life smiley face. Her first in days, for sure.
CHAPTER 12
Eliza Starts a Rumor Page 6
