The Trophy Wives Club

by Kristin Billerbeck

“I did.”

  “What’s a HELOC?” I ask her.

  “A home equity line of credit,” she answers smugly. “Not smart in this day and age with fluctuating interest rates and with the Fed, you never know what’s going to happen to rates. They could rise any day now.”

  “You’re scaring me.”

  “Our house is paid in full. We have four income-producing properties. We have absolutely no debt, own our cars outright, vacation where we want, buy what we want, live how we want—”

  “But Mom, you and Dad don’t go anywhere on vacation, and how do you live like you want?”

  “We like to stay home. I sew; your Dad subscribes to a dozen or so sports channels, that’s how we want to live. Maybe you need to embrace the simpler side of things. It’s time we taught you and Mike to do the same because you have to be ready to do right by us in the end.”

  “Mom, what are you talking about? You’ll outlive us both.”

  It’s like this woman is an alien posing in my mother’s skin. I thought all she did was go to Goodwill and find old clothes for teddy bears. She owns her house outright? Rentals?

  “Jay is not doing this to you, Haley. You’re doing this to you. If I sat around and let your father handle everything, we’d have nothing more than our house payment, do you know that? Now go get dressed.”

  My body doesn’t want to move. “It’s almost time for Judge Judy,” I plead. I try to pull my jeans on, but the fact is, I’ve put on a little weight since this divorce business started, and I sort of want to breathe too. “I’m just going to get another pair of pants.”

  I slide into my favorite UCLA sweats, and my mother shakes her head. “You’re not getting a job in those. We’ll go shopping if we have to. But you’re paying for yourself. I would have taken that settlement and had it in various CDs coming due at different times so I always had money. Did you do that?”

  “No.” I pull my sweats back off and get into a breezy summer skirt that fits loosely. I find a pair of sandals and slide them on, only to realize it’s been some time since I shaved my legs. “I think I need a shower.”

  “I think you do,” my mother says.

  I unwrap another small chocolate on the way to the bathroom, and my mother plucks it from my fingers.

  “I think you’ve had enough.”

  I enter the bathroom and start the shower running. Looking into the mirror, I can see the dark circles under my eyes. It looks as though it’s been ages since I slept and really, that’s all I have done. And my roots? Ugh, don’t even get me started! I see my natural color, and it’s not pretty. “Mom,” I open the door a crack. “What day is it?”

  “It’s February 23. Friday.”

  “I’m almost officially divorced.”

  “Yep,” she answers.

  A weight falls away as I realize I’m three weeks away from being free. It’s over. I need a life. One of my own.

  Chapter 10

  Is it just me? Or are there an awful lot of women willing to be on daytime TV admitting their ignorance as to who fathered their children? You know, a mistake I can understand, a literal platoon of women lining up for their fifteen minutes to admit sleeping around, not so much. Maybe it’s human nature, but it makes me feel better about my own life. For five minutes, anyway. I click off the television set as someone knocks on my door. It’s probably my mother again with homemade clothes to make me feel better. I thought I sent her home last night with the promise that after our day of shopping, I was ready to find a new place. I look through the peephole. Oh crap, it’s Hamilton Lowe. The last person I want to see me suffering. I wonder if I’m quiet if he’ll just go away.

  “Haley?” he calls again.

  I run to the mirror and behold a frightening vision. I have no mascara on! I look like a cadaver on CSI before the testing. I slap some water on my face and dampen my hair, but quickly realize it would take a miracle to erase my current state in an appropriate span of time. I slap more water on and spray on my Dior foundation. Skin in a bottle, and thank the French for ingenuity! I try to focus on the under-eye area so I don’t look like a Tim Burton character.

  “Haley?” Hamilton calls again through the door, with another rap of his knuckles.

  “Just a minute!” I yank a brush through my hair, but there’s little difference, so I grab a rubber band and shove it into a ponytail. I frantically apply mascara, and my eyes reappear. I run to the door, and I’m about to open it, when I notice two empty frosting tubs on the nightstand. One, a person might understand. Two borders on insanity. I grab them up and toss them into the bathroom. “Be right there!” I call again. I smooth my tank top and realize I have no bra on. Sheesh! I run to the bathroom and wrestle myself into “proper underwear” as my mother would call it, throw on a sweater and take a deep breath. Opening the door, I put on my best party smile. “Hamilton, how are you?”

  He looks behind me. “Everything okay?”

  “Perfect,” I say, sliding my fingers through my ratty ponytail. “What can I do for you?” For some reason, it dawns on me that I might have frosting on my face, so I start to wipe my face as though I’m a diseased animal in the zoo. Of course I sprayed on skin, so if I do, it’s caked underneath it. Nothing I can do about it now.

  “You’re sure you’re okay?”

  “Just not expecting anyone, that’s all.”

  “Your phone’s off the hook.”

  I look back at the phone tossed on the floor. “Yeah, I was taking a nap.”

  Hamilton nods. “I’m sorry to come without calling first. I brought you the money from your wedding ring.”

  “My wedding ring?”

  “Lindsay went down and bought it back for your price and sold it at auction for you. The store called me to verify her story. You put me down on the paperwork to certify the ring was yours?”

  “Oh…yeah I did.”

  He pulls out a check from his chest pocket. “It’s a cashier’s check, so don’t lose it.”

  I hold up the check. “Thanks, huh?” I start to shut the door when Hamilton edges closer.

  “Why don’t you get dressed and come to Friday night service with me?”

  I feel my hair, “Oh I couldn’t. I’m—busy.”

  “Haley, you need to get out for a while. Just church, maybe a little dinner afterwards. I’ll wait in the car for you. Take your time.”

  “Hamilton, I hardly think I’m ready for an outing—and church?”

  He rolls his eyes, “You really haven’t got anything better to do, have you?”

  I look at the television, willing myself to come up with an excuse. “No. Not really.”

  “Get dressed. You’re going to start to discolor if you stay in here any longer, it’s like you’re pickling. I’ll meet you in the car.”

  He walks out into the sun, and I slit open the curtain to steal a peek. “In another life, Hamilton Lowe, in another life…” Too much bad television. I’m getting hallucinogenic. But the man did get me to agree to church on a Friday night.

  I’m ready in twenty minutes. Hair washed, brushed out, and everything. If Jay taught me anything, it was that he wasn’t waiting, so I’d better be quick about it. Hamilton’s waiting in a Lexus sedan. He sees me coming and gets out of the car to open my door. Jay always opened my door too. Someone might see him!

  “You’re sure about this?” I ask as I meet him.

  He opens the door. “Absolutely. We can be adults, Haley. We can be friends.”

  How I wish that were true. If Lindsay sees me with him, she’s going to kill me. Small talk proves…well, small. Neither one of us can think of a thing to say. And me with all my experience in shallow discussions. It’s useless at the moment.

  “It seems money is just falling from the sky,” I finally say about my check for the ring. “Of course I’ll have to pay Lindsay back what they gave me already. Luckily, I didn’t spend it. This windfall is going to end soon enough. I’m not being irresponsible with it.”

  “No, you wouldn�
�t be.”

  “My mom was down to visit.”

  “I’ll bet that was nice.”

  “She wants me to find an apartment.”

  “That’s a great idea.”

  “Yeah.”

  And that’s it. All we have to say for the duration of the forty-five-minute trip (ten without traffic). We capture small glances here and there, but then snap our heads toward our respective windows. I’m comforted by Hamilton’s presence. He has this way about him, a smooth walk and deft touch, always the gentleman except where it comes to law. We arrive at the church ten minutes early, and the congregation is gathered out front. Fear boils up within me.

  “Maybe this wasn’t a great idea.”

  “Don’t be silly. I’m anxious to introduce you to some of the members.” As we get out of the car, I see a good portion of the milling people turn toward us and act as though they’re not interested, but there’s a buzz across the group, and no one’s eyes have veered.

  “Please, Hamilton, let’s go.”

  He stops walking and faces me. “Really? You want to just go to dinner?”

  “There’s a coffee shop across the way. How about if I go and wait for you? I could grab a coffee and read the paper. That way you can get your church time, and we can meet up afterwards. I won’t put you out. It was really kind of you to rescue me from my hovel tonight.”

  He stretches out his arm toward me. “They won’t bite.”

  “No, but they might sting a little.”

  “You really don’t like churches, do you?”

  “I had a bad experience as a child. My parents used to drop me off, and more than once, my mom forgot to pick me up. She gets busy with things, you know?”

  “I promise, I won’t leave you anywhere.” He pulls me toward the church. “I’ll stay right with you the whole time, and everyone can see I’m the one with the trophy date tonight.” He winks when I try to protest. “That was my attempt at humor. You can see why I chose law.”

  I breathe in a deep breath as we approach the group. I try to focus in on faces so I don’t get overwhelmed at what they must think of Hamilton bringing some woman with him. Hamilton introduces me to an older lady named Ethel Wyeth, and she proceeds to tell me she’s known him since he was in diapers. I think he actually blushed. “A pleasure to have you, young lady. You know, we think the world of Hamilton here.”

  That doesn’t speak well for the rest of the night since I’m not familiar with anyone who’d speak well of him.

  Then the first lightning strikes. She’s a brunette about my age, wearing what can only be described as a frock, boasting big pink flowers and a skirt the size of Texas. I want to shake her down to see if she’s hiding weapons under there. She’s a bitty little thing, lost in the atrocity she calls a dress. Now that is a crime against fashion. To make matters worse, she’s wearing pageant makeup. But I shouldn’t judge. Right? Isn’t that what they say? Never judge a book by its cover or a person by her dress. Maybe she likes floral frocks like I preferred sequins.

  “Priscilla, I’d like you to meet Haley.” As Hamilton says this, he doesn’t tear his eyes off me. The interaction between them is one I’ve seen at many a Hollywood party. She only has eyes for him, and Hamilton—well, he doesn’t have the first clue.

  She gives me the fake smile that only women see. “Haley, welcome. Aren’t you a pretty little thing?”

  I think that’s meant to be a diss as I’m about a foot taller than her, but I smile graciously. “Thank you.”

  “How do you know our Hamilton?” She pinches his cheek. Really. Like she got her dating tips from Great Grandma. There’s a part of me that wants to take her aside and give her seduction clues. But I don’t think they do that type of thing here in the church. It’s a different frame of reference. She probably bakes him a pie or something.

  “Your Hamilton,” I say, giving her full ownership as she’s more than welcome to him. “Your Hamilton is my ex-husband’s lawyer.”

  “Ex-husband?” Priscilla face is bewildered. “Well, honey, you’re too young to have an ex-husband.”

  “Oh if that were true, I’d be folding shirts merrily and the chocolate frosting shelves would be safe.”

  I get the rightfully confused look. She pulls Hamilton aside as if some magical wall has just been built between us. “Hamilton, you’re mixing business with pleasure? That doesn’t sound like you.”

  I smile at those around me, trying to act completely natural while Hamilton answers for his frivolous choice in women. His brow darkens and he whispers something and comes back, smiling too broadly. Priscilla huffs off. “Haley, shall we go in?”

  “Hamilton, go talk to her.”

  “Haley, you’re my guest, and as such, you should be treated accordingly.”

  “She wants you, Hamilton. Is that something lost on you?”

  “Priscilla? Haley, don’t be ridiculous, I’ve known her since seventh grade.”

  “Then, there’s most likely a Pee Chee folder with your name in hearts scribbled all over it.”

  “You just want to avoid being seen with me. I know what this is about.”

  Every fiber in my being wants to run. I can’t bring my feet to place one in front of the other. “I can’t do it.”

  “What do you mean? It’s church. It’s not the gallows.”

  “I’ll catch a cab.” I walk toward the busy street. “Hamilton, go get that girl and either take her in your arms and act like you mean it, or let her go. She’s too old to be chasing you for something that won’t happen.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I appreciate what you’re trying to do for me. You’re trying to get me back on my feet, and I completely applaud that. But maybe this isn’t the best venue for me, if you know what I’m saying.”

  “I don’t have any idea what you’re saying, actually. I’m looking forward to having dinner with you. I want to hear everything you’re doing now and how you’ve managed. I want to know what you’re up to.”

  “And what about Priscilla? If she’s been your friend since seventh grade, maybe it’s time you actually noticed her.”

  I’m sure Hamilton means this with the best of intentions. He’s not devious enough to be doing it for anyone else, but Hamilton Lowe is single, handsome, and available. It wouldn’t matter if we were in college, a bar, or this church. The women have staked their claim, and I am an interloper. Just like Rachel.

  Hamilton stands there with his mouth ajar. He’s so handsome, so very filled with innocent ideas. I hate that it’s my job to slap some sense into him. I walk toward the coffee shop. “I’ll catch a cab. Thanks for the nice visit!” I call out, and I’m gone. The church is once again safe from the likes of me.

  Chapter 11

  I’m a snob. It sort of snuck up on me. I thought I did all the self-pampering for Jay’s approval, but in truth, I am dying for a good color and cut. Facial. Eyelash dye. Wax. I need the works. I don’t even remember how to cut my own toenails (in fact, I don’t think I own scissors to do it!). I so have to get a life because the fact is, I am a wee bit spoiled and now that I’ve emerged from my cave, the sunlight is revealing every flaw I’ve hidden for the last nine years!

  One has to be proactive in warding off ugly, and that costs money.

  I want to shop, too. Not for brand names, but definitely for higher quality, and I’m broke. Well, not broke, but let’s just say I’m not used to plopping down cash for purchases. But my new life has to start somewhere, and I can think of no better place to give birth to a future than at the mall.

  Shopping always gives me a sense of purpose, and that’s just what I’m missing. So maybe I am shallower than I thought. I want good shoes. Am I really so different from anyone else? Who wouldn’t select Giuseppe Zanotti’s over Payless Shoe Source if given a choice? But as I take a pair of jewel-encrusted stilettos in my grip, I realize three things.

  $700 will pay for eleven days in my motel.

  I can’t walk in stilet
tos.

  I have no need of stilettos at the Motel Del Mar or in any other facet of my lifestyle right now.

  I place them back on their pedestal while mourning all three relevant points. People were nice to me when I shopped. I felt important. I came home with shoes and handbags and everyone was happy. For a little while, anyway.

  Jay never held anything back from me when we were married, except himself. If I wanted it, I slapped down a credit card, and he paid the bill. I totally see why I fell victim to daytime television and QVC to cope in my crisis. Without the power of money, my shallow relationships have caught up with me. That’s just wrong. I need a fix.

  “May I help you, Madam?” He’s handsome. He’s gay. He wants me to buy these shoes! The pressure mounts…

  “I…um…”

  “Do you have an event you’re shopping for?”

  “No.” I shake my head.

  “These heels are to die for! Let me get your size. Seven?”

  “Eight,” I say, enjoying the little game where the salesperson makes my feet smaller than they are.

  “You have to get to the root of the issue,” my mother told me. Jay was not the root, the origin, though it could be argued, he was certainly one of them—on ample doses of Miracle-Gro.

  The experts (Dr. Phil) say I taught Jay how to treat me. “You teach people how to treat you!” Well, this proves I should never have a dog because a trainer I clearly am not. And I don’t have it in me in this lifetime to train another one. So I need to be thinking cat. Of course, Darcy is AWOL, so maybe I should cut my losses.

  “Those are genuine Swarovski crystals on the toe,” the salesman prods. “Halle Berry wore a similar pair to the Oscars. Of course, none of them are exactly alike. These shoes are custom with each pair.”

  I’m salivating. Eleven nights…Free toothpaste, I try to reason.

  “The sole”—he runs his manicured fingers the length of the shoe—“is perfection.”