When Life Gives You Lululemons

by Lauren Weisberger

  “Hey, great work, Riz,” the girl said, swatting him on the ass with a towel. Her breasts heaved. Emily noticed she wasn’t alone in staring at them—Rizzo and Helene were captivated too.

  “Thanks, baby. See you tomorrow.” Rizzo yanked the towel out of her hand and draped it around his neck. All three of them watched as the girl grabbed her duffel and her boxing gloves and walked toward the door.

  “Damn,” Rizzo breathed as he stared after her.

  “Hey, Rizzo? I’m Emily Charlton. Helene brought me in to help manage the . . . situation from last night. It’s really nice to meet you.”

  His eyes met hers, and for a split second Emily was torn between feeling like the only woman in the world and feeling like a complete pedophile for finding an eighteen-year-old so damn sexy. No one had eyes like that; could that shade of green even be real?

  “Hey, thanks for coming. Very cool of you, but I do think Helene is overreacting a little.”

  Rizzo twisted open a bottle of SmartWater and drank the entire thirty-four ounces without taking a breath. Helene gave Emily a look that said, Why don’t you take this one.

  “I’m sure you didn’t mean anything . . . nefarious by it, Rizzo, but especially after what happened in Charlottesville last year, the public tends to make a pretty big deal out of anti-Semitism, which is typically how wearing a Nazi costume is interpreted. So we should definitely get out in front of this.”

  He waved his hand and started on another bottle. “All just for laughs. People get it. My fans get it.”

  Emily took a deep breath and tried to keep her voice even. “Okay, maybe. But some fans might not. The Jewish ones in particular. Or anyone who was not in favor of the Holocaust, which is probably a lot of people. Certainly your sponsors—Uniqlo, Lexus, SmartWater—won’t be thrilled. And I don’t imagine Sony will be either. So I’ve come up with a plan to extricate you from all this ugliness. One hundred percent clean, a do-over. As long as you listen and play your part well, this will all go away, I promise.”

  Rizzo didn’t appear particularly impressed, but he looked at her and waited.

  “I’ll call all my contacts at the usuals: the Post, HuffPo, TMZ, Variety, etcetera, and explain how you thought the swastika was an ancient Buddhist symbol of peace. We’ll play the idiot card. Just a role, but important to play up: you’re young and inexperienced and horrified that you offended anyone. You read about the symbol in a Buddhist text you were studying for a meditation class and really connected with its peaceful message.”

  “Young and inexperienced?”

  “You’re not, of course,” Emily said. “That’s just the part you’re going to play.” When he didn’t say anything, she continued, “You will make yourself available for all respectable interviews, where you’ll be contrite and apologetic. You’ll make a massive donation to the ADL. You’ll pay a very public visit to the Holocaust Museum in D.C., where you’ll meet with Jewish clergy and issue a formal statement stressing that this was all a mistake and a misunderstanding and not at all representative of who you are. You’ll repeat it a thousand times, or however many it takes, with genuine sincerity, until the story shifts gears and you suddenly become a champion of peace and a defender of persecuted peoples everywhere. Trust me, we can get there so long as we all follow the script.”

  “That’s smart,” Helene said, nodding. “Emily’s plan sounds like exactly what we need.”

  Rizzo snorted. “Really? I think it sounds asinine. I’m supposed to go out there and pretend like I’m some sort of idiot?”

  Emily could feel Helene trying just as hard as she was not to exchange any glances.

  “I mean, this is all such bullshit. Total overkill.”

  “Do you have another suggestion?” Emily asked, her voice as neutral as she could manage. He really was as huge a fucking idiot as she’d imagined he would be.

  “Yeah, dude, I’ll post an explanation—that I was just having fun on New Year’s and never wanted to piss anyone off. I mean, I don’t have anything against Jews. My agent is Jewish. My accountant is Jewish. Hell, all of my lawyers are Jewish. My fans know I’m not a hater.”

  “Rizzo, I can’t express strongly enough that the best response is definitely not ‘some of my best friends are Jewish,’ ” Emily said. “I really don’t think you can get away with Snapchatting a ‘my bad’ and expect it all to go away. Because it won’t.”

  “If I post it to Linger, that’s exactly what will happen.”

  Emily had no idea what Linger was, but she wasn’t about to admit it. “Rizzo, this is what I do. Affleck after the nanny. Bieber after the wanker pictures. Kevin Spacey after the fourteen-year-old. DUIs. Drunken rants at cops. Political rants at Oscars. Shoplifting. More sex tapes than I could ever count. I can help you.”

  “Cool,” he said. “I’ll think about it and get back to you.” And before Emily could mask her shock, he strolled out of the gym and closed the door behind him.

  Emily looked to Helene, who shrugged. “He’s just like that,” she said. “He knows you’re right.”

  “Really? I didn’t get that impression. And this isn’t something that can wait. I’ve already seen the pictures on Radar Online. Has he?”

  “I know, I totally agree with you. Let me talk to him after he cools down, and I’ll call you. You’ll be local?”

  Emily nodded, although she hadn’t given one moment’s thought as to where she was headed next. She’d come directly from JFK with her suitcase, figuring she’d be working out of Rizzo’s apartment for the rest of the day and night, at which point she’d check in to a hotel. But now? With no confirmed job?

  Helene walked her to the foyer, and the maid appeared with Emily’s rolling suitcase. “Thank you for coming on such short notice. I’ll call you within the hour, okay?”

  But Emily’s phone rang before the elevator reached the lobby. “That was fast.”

  “I’m really sorry, Emily, but I wanted to tell you right away. He wants to . . . go in a different direction.”

  “A different direction? What, is he planning to join the KKK? Because even I would have a hard time smoothing that one over.”

  Helene didn’t laugh. “I told him you were the absolute best, but he wants to go with Olivia Belle. Apparently she called him this morning and he liked what she had to say. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. We’ll of course cover your flight and time, just invoice me.”

  “Are you serious?” Emily asked, not able to help herself.

  “I think he’s making a mistake, and I told him as much. But if he listened to me, we wouldn’t be in this situation.”

  “No, I get it,” Emily said, even though she didn’t. She mumbled something about talking later and hung up as soon as she could. Thankfully, the lobby furniture was both welcoming and empty, because she sank into an armchair without even looking.

  Olivia Belle? If that was even her real name. Was he fucking kidding? She was a child. Granted, one with an Instagram following of more than two million people, compared to Emily’s twenty thousand. But still. Instagram didn’t fix crises. Followers didn’t manage mega-celebrities. Tweeting was not a sufficient solution to a catastrophe.

  Still, this was the third big job she’d lost to that bitch. Olivia Belle was twenty-six and gorgeous and popping up at every worthwhile party and event on both coasts. She was loud. And all over every social-media platform. And moving in on Emily’s clients as if she owned the industry.

  Emily started dialing Kyle before she remembered it was New Year’s Day. She could call Miles, she supposed, but he was probably working out or hanging with friends. Instead she pushed “Miriam” on her favorites list and laughed, as she always did, when a picture of her friend grinning in the dorkiest way popped up on her screen.

  “Hi!” Miriam said. Kids were yelling in the background. “Isn’t it early for you to be awake? What, like noon?”

  “I’m in New York, actually. I hate that you left the city. Why didn’t you think about me for one secon
d when you made this asinine decision to be a suburban housewife?”

  “Aw, sweetie. I miss you too!”

  “I’m serious. I’m here, what? Like, twice a month? And you just left.”

  Miriam laughed. “I’m thirty minutes away, Em. There are trains that come here, like, every five seconds. How long are you staying? I’ll come meet you tomorrow as soon as the kids are back in school.”

  “I don’t know. I just got fired by Rizzo Benz. Or not ever even hired, I’m not sure which. Olivia Belle is ruining my life.”

  “She’s a child. She doesn’t have anything on you. And Rizzo Benz is an idiot for thinking she does.”

  “Three jobs now. And that’s not even counting the other two I lost to her last year. Whatever,” Emily said, glaring back at the doorman, who shot her a look for cursing or talking too loudly or using the lobby like her personal office or all of the above.

  “How many times has Miranda called you now?”

  “I cannot go back to Runway!” Emily blurted.

  “Director of special events sure sounds huge to me.”

  “I know, but I’d feel ridiculous going back. New York, sure. But to give up my autonomy? I decide where and when and how I work, for whom, and how much. It feels like the wrong move to give that up and go back where I started.”

  “I hear you. But it’s Miranda Priestly. Think of the wardrobe budget. The parties . . . It’s the job a million girls would die for . . .”

  “You did not just say that.”

  “Sorry, I couldn’t help myself.”

  Emily heard a loud crash in the background, followed by crying. “Which monster is that? I’ll let you go.”

  “Matthew! How many times do I have to tell you that you may not touch the fireplace poker? It’s not a toy!” And then to Emily in a whisper, “Sorry. He can be such an asshole.”

  Emily smiled. Anyone who could call her adorable five-year-old an asshole was someone she wanted to be friends with.

  “Em? If you really have nothing to do, why don’t you come here? We have a guest suite with your name on it. Totally sequestered, up on the third floor, with no children anywhere nearby. Stay a night. Or as long as you like. I’ll text you the train information.”

  “The train?” Emily spat, as though Miriam had just suggested she walk from Tribeca to Greenwich.

  “Everyone takes it, love. It’s not just for unstylish people.”

  Emily harrumphed. “Fine. I’ll come. I can’t bear to get on a plane right away. And of course I’d like to see those rug rats of yours. But only one night,” she said, and clicked her phone off before she could change her mind. Then she swiped it open once more and punched her location into the Uber app. Emily Charlton might be a washed-up, middle-aged Luddite, but she most definitely did not take the train.

  5

  Just Give Up. I Have

  Miriam

  As the door quietly closed behind her, Miriam surveyed the tangle of toys in the garage that, in New York, her children hadn’t even known existed—bikes, sleds, skis, Rollerblades, scooters, even an old-fashioned wooden wagon—and smiled. They were so lucky to live in a place like this, and even six months in, she didn’t take it for granted.

  The mudroom, as usual, looked like a hurricane had hit, with overflowing cubbies of puffers and mittens, raincoats and hats and snow boots and scarves and umbrellas, and the kitchen after breakfast always looked like a starving rabid raccoon had nosed its way into every single cabinet and drawer.

  “Hey,” Miriam heard from the couch before she could see the source of the voice.

  “Em?” she asked, although she knew full well that was the only person who would be watching talk shows in the family room on a Tuesday morning. Emily had been with them for three days now, poring over gossip sites and newspaper articles about Rizzo Benz and Olivia Belle; she showed no signs of leaving. “Thanks for cleaning up—you shouldn’t have.”

  “What?” Emily turned and glanced at the kitchen. Miriam could see she was in a ratty T-shirt that read BUT FIRST, COFFEE, and a borrowed pair of Miriam’s flannel pajama pants that looked like they were three sizes too big. An open laptop sat on the couch beside her. “Oh, I wasn’t getting near that disaster. Please. Don’t you have someone to handle that?”

  Miriam rolled her eyes and stuck a pod in the machine. “Do you want a coffee?”

  “Are you coming from actually working out?” Emily asked. “Or are Lululemons considered getting dressed around here?”

  “Both, actually. I went to a nine o’clock SoulCycle class.”

  “Wow, I’m impressed. The Miriam Kagan I know is not the Soul kind of girl.”

  “Yeah, well, I try to go a couple days a week. Not like the other moms. The instructor asked today who was ‘doubling,’ and half the class raised their hands. Three of them were tripling.”

  “Three hours of your day and a hundred and twenty bucks—aggressive. Even for Greenwich,” Emily said. “At least in Santa Monica, they don’t admit to it.”

  Miriam dumped in a splash of half-and-half and grabbed a croissant from the plastic bucket of assorted Trader Joe’s breakfast pastries.

  “You can’t outrun a bad diet, you know,” Emily called.

  Miriam gave Emily the finger and shoved the croissant in her mouth.

  “A minute on the lips, a lifetime on the hips.”

  “These hips can handle one croissant, trust me.” Miriam grabbed a love handle with one hand while balancing her coffee cup with the other. The croissant hung out of her mouth as she carefully lowered herself into the chair opposite Emily, trying to ignore the sensation of her stomach fat rolling over the waistband of her yoga pants. The high-waisted waistband. With extra compression. “What are you working on?”

  “Trying to get my career back. I’m being Snapchatted to irrelevance. When did we get so old?”

  “We’re thirty-six. It’s hardly ancient.”

  “Look around. You have three kids. And a professionally decorated house.” Emily surveyed the family room. “It’s lovely, but whoever did this clearly hates color. It’s like fifty shades of gray without the S and M.”

  Miriam nodded. “Exactly how I like it. So, what’s going on? I hardly think it’s fair to say that your career is in the toilet just because Rizzo Benz went with Olivia Belle. Or are we still not allowed to talk about it?”

  “It’s not just Rizzo.” Emily sighed. “Maybe I’m losing my touch.”

  “Your touch? You went from being the top stylist in Hollywood to managing top celebrities in crisis. But if you don’t like it, do something else. You clearly can.” Miriam polished off the last of her croissant. “What does Miles think?”

  Emily shrugged. “He thinks like you. I’m overreacting. I’m great. But he’s not even around these days. He’s about to go to Hong Kong for three months.”

  “Go with him,” Miriam said.

  “I’m not going to Hong Kong.”

  “It’s a great city.”

  “Maybe I’m depressed. Look what I’m wearing,” Emily said.

  “Looks fine to me. Move in here and you can live in your pajamas all day. Just give up. I have.”

  “Yeah, you have,” Emily said. “I never thought I’d see Ms. Editor of the Harvard Law Review doing school drop-off followed by SoulCycle class.”

  “That’s harsh. But fair, I guess. You should hear my mother. She’s literally embarrassed by me.”

  “Your mother won a Pulitzer when she was twenty-eight and ignored you until you were in college.”

  “Last week Matthew told us, ‘When I grow up, I want to be an inventor just like Daddy.’ And then Maisie, without missing a beat, says, ‘Well, when I grow up, I want to go to the gym like Mommy.’ ”

  Emily laughed. “Ouch.”

  “Yeah, I know. Like, ‘Sweetie, Mommy has a JD/MBA from Harvard. She made partner at the most prestigious firm in the city at thirty-four. Up until a lousy six months ago, Mommy worked eighty hours a week helping multinational comp
anies and was the breadwinner for this family.’ ”

  “Did you say that?”

  Miriam snorted. “She’s five. And the goal is not to become my mother, right? I said something inane about whether she grows up to become a mommy or a musician or an architect or a firefighter, all that matters is that she’s happy.”

  “And you believe that?” Emily asked, eyebrows raised.

  “Yes! I do now. I’ve been operating at a hundred percent since I was her age. I blinked, and my kids went from newborns to school-aged real human beings with their own thoughts and feelings, and I missed most of it because I was always at work. Now that Paul’s sold his start-up everything’s upside down, like we hit the lottery. How do I explain that having the chance to take a breather midlife and evaluate everything is rarer than a double rainbow?”

  “Tell me you didn’t say all that.” Emily brushed hair out of her eye.

  “I didn’t say all that. I asked if she wanted a bag of cheddar bunnies, and she broke down hysterically crying because she only likes the cookie ones. But seriously, Em, how lucky am I right now? I have choices. Not a lot of people can say that. You can too.”

  “It’s been, what? Six months out of the city? Another six and you’ll want to step directly in front of one of those Range Rovers out there.”

  “Maybe. But for now it’s okay. Besides, I’m doing some freelance stuff on the side. Local projects, to keep my edge.”

  “Like?”

  Miriam could see that Emily’s attention was already starting to drift back to the TV. On the screen, Hoda and Kathie Lee were drinking rosé.

  “Like nanny tax law. Prenups. Estate planning. That kind of thing.”