“Miriam? Sage is looking for you.”
At the mere sound of Sage’s name, Miriam blushed, picturing the lavender egg resting in her bag. “Me? I’m, uh, I don’t really . . .”
“It’s probably your turn in the private room,” Ashley said, refilling. “After the demonstration, Sage takes each woman into a separate room so you can make your purchases in private. And you’re up.”
“Oh, I’m fine. Thanks, but I already got that one thing and—”
“Come on!” Ashley said, grabbing Miriam’s arm, sloshing some of her wine onto the counter. “Stop being such a prude. Trust me, Paul is going to thank you for this. Think of the jewelry. Men are often overcome with a desire to buy their wives diamonds when sex is reintroduced to the marriage!”
“It’s not that we’re not having sex,” Miriam muttered, but she stopped herself. Why had she said anything to Ashley about something as personal as her and Paul’s sex life?
“Go on. Buy whatever looks good—he’ll like anything, I promise.”
Before Miriam could protest again, Sage swooped out of nowhere, yanked Miriam into a room, and closed the door behind her. “Welcome to my boudoir,” Sage said, waving her arms expansively.
The juxtaposition between the masculine mahogany of Claire’s husband’s office and the objects that occupied every centimeter was comical. On the wall behind the desk was an old-school oil portrait of some titan of industry who appeared to be gazing out on a desk filled with sex toys of every imaginable shape and color. The velvet tufted couch was strewn with naughty black lingerie, and the windowsill served as a staging area for various types of lube.
“Thank you for tonight,” Miriam said, trying to keep her gaze directly on Sage. “It was so . . . informative. And thanks also for the lavender . . . thing. But I think that’s all I’m interested in for right now.”
“No pressure!” Sage sang, pulling Miriam around the room in a small circle. “Just look around. I know it can sometimes feel a little embarrassing, but trust me, I can’t even tell you how many marriages I’ve saved with a few well-chosen items.”
Miriam’s laugh sounded hollow and uncomfortable. “Oh, Paul and I are totally fine. Just young kids, you know? Nothing more serious than that.”
“Of course not,” Sage agreed. “But those—lean years, shall we call them?—can quickly become the norm if you aren’t vigilant. One minute you’re blaming it on nursing and the next minute your youngest is four and you can’t remember the last time you’ve had sex.”
Five, Miriam thought.
“Then the next thing you know, your husband’s sexting the nanny or the tennis coach or his nurse or his secretary, and bam! End of life as you know it. Clichés exist for a reason.”
Miriam’s thoughts flashed to Paul, who was likely sitting around another multimillion-dollar home at that very moment, staring at the gorgeous, unsuspecting au pair who’d made the mistake of stopping by the kitchen for a banana or a can of Coke. Miriam glanced around at the lingerie, which looked microscopic. “I can’t wear any of that,” she said, waving her hand toward a mesh catsuit that may or may not fit a ten-year-old.
Sage nodded in agreement while Miriam tried not to be offended. “No, that’s not what I’m thinking. Here, look at this. It’s my all-time bestseller and just a great, nonthreatening way for the bashful to jump right in.”
“What is it?” Miriam asked, accepting the beautiful navy box that read love is art in small script.
“It’s a gigantic white canvas—think the size of a shower curtain—and it comes with completely safe and organic body paint. You lay it out on the bedroom or bathroom floor, apply the paint to each other, and then make love right on top of the canvas. When you’re finished, you get to shower together and soap each other up to get off all the paint. I bet you used to shower all the time together. Can you even remember the last time?”
“No,” Miriam murmured, staring at the box.
“The best part is that you’ll have made a masterpiece that you send back to the company, and they frame it in a color of your choosing and you mount it over the bed. Every time you go to sleep, you’ll both remember that night. It’s literally the best date night ever.”
“That actually does sound cool,” Miriam said, trying to envision her and Paul covering each other in black paint and rolling around on the canvas together. It seemed fun. It didn’t require her to jam herself into anything binding or itchy, nor insert anything into her body—or his. She wouldn’t have to pretend to be a cowgirl or a schoolgirl or an any other kind of girl—just herself having some old-fashioned sexy fun with her husband. Yes, Sage was right. This was a good start.
“You can’t even imagine how many of these I’ve sold tonight. You’re going to walk into half the master bedrooms in Greenwich and see these hanging on the wall.”
“I’ll take it!” Miriam said, yanking out her Amex.
“You’ll love it,” Sage promised, tucking the box into a discreet brown paper bag. “And so will your husband. Here, sign with your finger and you’re good to go.”
Miriam accepted the iPad from Sage and nearly passed out when she saw the total: $475.
“Um, I didn’t realize . . . I thought . . . It’s quite a bit of money . . .”
“Oh, that’s just because it includes the framing, sweetie! Trust me. It’s going to change your life for the better. And you can’t put a price on that.”
There was a knock on the door. “Just a moment!” Sage called out. “We’re nearly finished here.”
So much for “I won’t pressure you to buy anything,” Miriam thought as she scrawled her name with her fingertip. Watching over Miriam’s shoulder, Sage pressed “submit” and flashed her an enormous smile. “Enjoy it, okay? And come back again soon. He’s going to be hooked!”
Miriam half-staggered back out to the living room, where Ashley was sitting with three or four other women. They were all laughing so hard that tears streamed down their faces.
“What’d you get?” Ashley called to Miriam.
“Oh, nothing, really,” Miriam said, trying to hide the telltale brown paper bag behind her leg.
“I bet you got the canvas!” called a woman Miriam recognized as co-president of the school’s PTA. The women all nodded.
“Hey, not to pry,” said the one who had twins the same age as Miriam’s. “But Ashley said you’re friends with Karolina Hartwell. Is it true she drank an entire bottle of tequila and then got in the car with all those kids?”
“No, that’s actually not true at all,” Miriam said. She noticed the room had quieted, but she wasn’t sure what she should say next. It was hardly the right time or place to announce that the senator had set her up. So she quickly helped herself to another sip of wine and held her breath until the group changed topics.
It took a minute for Miriam to realize that she was a little tipsy, yes, but in a good, warm way, and besides, how long had it been since she’d gotten buzzed with friends? Ashley was high-energy, but she was kind and so willing to introduce Miriam around and make her feel welcome. And most important, she had taken a first positive step to improving whatever temporary weird thing was going on between her and Paul. She took a few deep breaths, pulled her phone out of her bag, and sent her husband what counted in mommy world as a racy text: At sex-toy party and all stocked up. Hope poker night is fun. See you later. xoxo Smiling, she gathered up her things and went in search of another glass of wine.
Miriam flashed on Karolina. She was glad Karolina had hired Emily, since it was obvious that all of Greenwich believed Karolina was a drunk. There was work to do there. But other than that, even Miriam had to admit: as far as nights went, this one wasn’t a total bust, and Greenwich wasn’t shaping up to be such a bad town after all.
12
No Good Deed
Karolina
“I’m so sorry. So, so sorry. I really wish it could be different.” Natalie folded her hands and looked at the table.
The coffee s
hop in Georgetown where they were seated buzzed with the lunchtime rush: young professionals in suits, college students in hoodies, and mommies clad in spandex. Karolina was both surprised and grateful that she hadn’t yet run into anyone she knew.
“I understand,” Karolina said quietly, although she didn’t.
“You know that if it were up to me, there would be no question. But the board was unanimous. And let me stress that it’s temporary. Only until this whole . . . situation can be cleared up.”
“Uh-huh.”
Natalie reached across the bistro table and placed her hand on Karolina’s elbow. “Lina, say something. Please. Is there anything I can do?”
“You can give me my position back. You know firsthand that I would never do what I’m accused of, and that I care about helping this school more than anyone else does.”
“I wish I could, honey. But the school is one hundred percent reliant on the generosity of its donors, the largest of whom make up the board, and they voted to suspend you temporarily—until this can all be cleared up. Any type of legal trouble or negative media attention detracts from our mission. You must understand that.”
“I do. I just hate it.”
“I hate it too.”
A moment of awkward silence followed before Natalie pressed her palms to the table. “I’m sorry to cut this short, but I have parent meetings all afternoon.”
“Of course,” Karolina hurried to say, although she was caught off guard by how abruptly Natalie was ending their meeting.
“Stay in touch? And let me know if there’s anything I can do.”
Karolina stood up to hug her goodbye and could feel the eyes of the surrounding customers on her. She was accustomed to it—if you were six feet tall and a former cover girl, you got used to people staring—but now she had to wonder if they recognized her because of the news. Today’s Post was particularly nasty: a photo of Karolina from the Greenwich Whole Foods with HOT MESS! in all caps and size-100 font. Emily had talked her down when Karolina called, half-hysterical; said she was working on a plan.
“Will do,” Karolina said, but Natalie was halfway to the door. Karolina sat back down and blew into her tea. A man in his forties wearing an ugly gray suit diverted his eyes when she looked at him.
Her phone rang. “Trip?”
His voice was familiar but distant. “Lina? Hi. Okay, I spoke to Graham, and it’s all worked out. You’re welcome to attend Harry’s swim meet today.” He said this as if he had secured primary custody for Karolina. “I think, under the circumstances, that’s a fairly generous—”
“Cut the shit, Trip. You know exactly what’s happening here and so do I.”
“Lina, it’s not quite that—”
“I’ll be at the meet at four.”
“One more thing . . .” Trip sounded apprehensive. “Graham insists that the visit be supervised.”
“Supervised? It’s at the middle school pool! With his entire team and all the other parents and coaches. Come on, Trip. That’s ridiculous.”
“Those are the terms for a visit with his son.”
“His son? Whose side are you on here?”
“I’m trying to remain impartial and represent both of you fairly.” Trip paused, and his voice softened. “I really am sorry, Lina, but we both know that he has sole custody of Harry.”
Karolina inhaled sharply, as though she’d been punched. “How many times did I ask Graham to adopt Harry? A hundred? Three hundred? There was always an excuse why it wasn’t a good time, but now I see exactly why: so when he inevitably traded me in for his next girl, he wouldn’t have to waste time with messy custody battles. What a stand-up guy your best friend is. And you’re right there with him.”
“Lina, we’ve all talked about this through the years, and I know that—”
“Stop calling me Lina! That’s for friends. Which you no longer are. And while your definition of a parent might be who has legal custody, my definition is the person who wakes up in the middle of the night to check the closets for monsters and who watches endless hours of Transformers when the child is home sick and who holds his hand when he gets his first cavity filled. Not to mention packs the school lunches and knows all his friends and drives him to all his practices and hugs him when he cries because the boys are picking on him at school. Graham sure as hell isn’t doing any of that.”
“Lina, I really—”
“Karolina!”
“Karolina,” he said slowly. “I took the liberty of calling Elaine to meet you today at Harry’s school.”
“I don’t know how you live with yourself.”
“It’s who he felt . . . comfortable with.”
“I have nothing else to say to you. Tell Graham I’ll be there today and I look forward to seeing his cold fish of a mother. Goodbye.” She pressed her thumb into the “end” button with force and then immediately dialed Trip back.
He answered on the first ring.
“One last thing. You no longer represent me. You’re fired.”
Karolina didn’t realize she was crying until the man who’d been staring at her walked over and handed her a clean napkin. She thanked him and dropped a twenty on the table before he could invite himself to sit. “I have to run,” she said quickly, grabbing her coat and bag. She held it together until she got to her car, parked right in front of Georgetown Family Medicine, where Jerry Goldwyn, their family doctor and a close friend of Graham’s from childhood, had his concierge practice. It was one of the perks of moving to Washington, Karolina thought—personalized medicine from a dear family friend. He had spent dozens of hours counseling Karolina and Graham on their fertility struggle, even when they lived in New York. In his early fifties, Jerry wasn’t quite their parents’ generation or their own, so he existed in a space between friend and family.
Karolina wiped her mascara as well as she could and walked up the stairs into Dr. Goldwyn’s townhouse office. His receptionist, Gloria, greeted her warmly.
“Karolina! Sweetheart, do you have an appointment?”
“Hi, Gloria. No, I was just walking by and wanted to see if Jerry was in.”
The older woman mimed wiping her forehead. “Phew! I thought the senility was advancing. I know he would love to see you, but he stepped out to lunch. Do you want me to give him a message?”
The waiting room was empty, but Karolina couldn’t help but wonder if that was an excuse and Jerry had somehow given Gloria instructions to turn her—this embarrassing drunk—away should she show up looking for anything. Just as she’d almost convinced herself of this, the door to the street opened behind her and Jerry walked in.
“Karolina? Sweetheart? Is that you?” Jerry’s voice was as warm and welcoming as always.
“In the flesh. Sorry, I was parked outside and wanted to come say hello. Is now a bad time?”
“A bad time? For you? Come, let’s go to my office. Do you want any coffee or anything?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“Gloria, don’t put any calls through unless they’re genuine 911 emergencies, okay? Thanks, love.”
Karolina followed him into his cluttered office, which had books from floor to ceiling and massive piles of patient charts on the desk. “Forgive the mess. I must be the last practicing physician in the Western world who hasn’t gone digital. I just can’t wrap my mind around it . . .” He pulled a lab coat off a guest chair and tossed it in a corner. “Please, here, sit. Let me get a look at you.”
“Not much to see, I’m afraid.”
“Nonsense. You’re always radiant. Glowing.”
“Pregnant women glow. Not women who have been thrown out by their husbands.”
“Right.” He looked physically pained. “I’m so sorry to see what’s been going on in the press. How can I help?”
Karolina hadn’t come in here in search of anything other than a friendly face, but she had a sudden realization: Jerry certainly knew—and could likely testify—that she did not now, or ever, have a drinking problem.
“Well, clearly you know that despite what my husband would have you believe, I am not an alcoholic. Almost the opposite! With all the hormones and IVF cycles and specialists, I’ve barely had a drink the past five years.”
“Of course. I know that.”
“Then maybe you would, like, testify to that effect? Not in court or anything, but maybe you’d go on the record saying as much? To a newspaper or a TV anchor or something?”
She could tell from his reaction that he was going to say no. “Lina, sweetheart, I would bet my entire practice on the simple fact that you don’t have an alcohol abuse problem. I know that. What I don’t know or understand—and what’s really none of my business—is what’s going on between you and Graham. I know that you’re separated because I read it in the papers, not because I heard it from him. I hope you can understand, but as both your and Graham’s doctor and, more importantly, friend, I really can’t get in the middle of this. I love and adore both of you.” Jerry gave her a sad smile. “I know this can’t be easy for you. But you’re an amazing woman, and I know you’ll get through it. Not just get through it—transcend it. Of that much I’m sure.”
“Thanks, Jerry. I appreciate hearing that, especially from you. And I do understand,” Karolina said, although she wasn’t sure she did.
The phone on Jerry’s desk rang. He pushed a button on the front face and said, “Yes, Gloria?”
“Sorry to bother you, Dr. Goldwyn, but it’s Mrs. O’Dell calling. Little Aiden fell out of his high chair and split open his lip. She’s wondering if she should go to the ER, and if so, what plastic surgeon you recommend?”
Jerry’s brow furrowed. “Wait, let me see who’s on call right now. Have her hold just a second . . .”
Karolina stood up. “It was great to see you. Sorry to barge in like this.”
He looked up. “You’re never barging in. I’m so sorry, I have to help this woman—”
“No, of course. Send my love to Irene.” She gathered her bag and coat and walked back to reception. “Wonderful to see you, Gloria.”
When Life Gives You Lululemons Page 12
