When Life Gives You Lululemons

by Lauren Weisberger

“Eric texted that he was having a bunch of guys over to play poker and asked if I wanted to join. I don’t play poker. I had a new episode of Game of Thrones to watch, and I’d just ordered Thai. But you’ve been on me since we moved to make an effort and meet some new friends, and I figured I probably should.”

  “This is my fault now?”

  “Was their new au pair there? Yes. Was she trotting around the house with no bra? Yes. Am I male and human? Did I look? Shoot me. But this picture that you paint—that we were all over there, staring at her body and making her feel uncomfortable and acting like a bunch of middle-aged perverts, is bullshit.”

  “What if it were Maisie. How would you feel then?”

  Paul’s mouth dropped. “Seriously?”

  Miriam smiled. She could feel the tension diffuse immediately. “Okay, that was low.”

  Paul kissed her on the mouth. “Too low.”

  They finished their drinks and moved from the bar to a table, and Paul did his usual for a special occasion: he ordered one of every appetizer on the menu. She’d thought it was weird when they first met, but she soon saw how awesome it was to taste so many different dishes and not get stuck with a giant meat or fish main dish that you were sick of after three bites. As she dug into the spicy tuna tartare and slices of truffle flatbread and salads with pears and Gorgonzola and the most amazing grilled calamari she’d ever tasted, she was again grateful for her husband. When the waiter brought out an old-fashioned champagne glass filled with chocolate mousse and topped with a single candle, Paul leaned over in her ear and whispered, “Happy birthday, sweetie. May thirty-seven be your best yet.”

  Together they devoured all the mousse and ordered the check. Miriam left for the ladies’ room, and when she returned, she saw Paul furiously typing into his phone. He switched it off as soon as she sat down.

  “Who was that?”

  “Just work.”

  Something about the way he said it seemed weird. He never said “work.” Miriam knew his entire team, and he always told her who was calling and what it was about.

  “What do they need so late? Is everything okay?”

  “Everything’s fine. Come on, let’s get back to the hotel.”

  “The hotel? We’re not going . . . anywhere else?”

  Miriam said nothing as they waited for their coats and overnight bags at the coat check.

  “Miriam? What were you expecting? You’ve told me a thousand times that you’d divorce me if I threw you a surprise party.”

  She followed Paul into the backseat of a waiting Uber. “I thought . . . just from the way you phrased it maybe . . .”

  “What?”

  “That you made some other plan.”

  “Other plan?” Again he was checking his phone.

  “Like a show or something? I don’t know, forget it.”

  “It’s already nine. It’s too late for a show. Do you want to go get a drink somewhere? We can go to the bar at the Surrey if you’d like.” He reached for her hand and kissed it. “Although, for the record, I’m not opposed to going straight to our room.”

  Something about the way Paul reached for her sent her mind back to the night he’d proposed to her in Madison Square Park and then taken her to their favorite red-sauce Italian restaurant, where both their families had been waiting for them. Dinner was rowdy and fun, with loads of cheap Chianti and endless toasts to the happy new couple, and by the time they said goodbye and stumbled into a cab, Miriam thought she might die of happiness. She had pretended to be scandalized by Paul reaching for her across the backseat, kissing her neck with a passion she now could almost barely remember, and she’d probably have let him pull her jeans down if it weren’t for the cabdriver, who threatened to drop them on the side of Sixth Avenue if they didn’t behave themselves. They had stayed up all night long, making love and talking about the future and laughing. Starving again at some point in the very early morning when it was still dark out, they had ventured to the corner diner for omelets and home fries and coffee, and then it was back to bed for another session. Miriam remembered staring at her brand-new engagement ring as the rising sun made it sparkle. When they finally fell asleep, it was fully light outside and they slept through breakfast and lunch, rising only in time for an early ordered-in dinner before heading back to bed.

  They could find that again, she was sure of it. That kind of love and passion didn’t flame out forever, did it? It took a backseat to small children with super-size needs and careers with endless demands, but somewhere—somewhere—the pilot light still burned. It simply had to, because the alternative was too awful to contemplate.

  Now Miriam scooted over to Paul and kissed him so hard she could feel him back away. She bit his lower lip just a little. She stuck her tongue in his mouth.

  “Whoa, tiger. What’s going on with you tonight?” He pulled away, and Miriam tried not to be offended when he mindlessly wiped his lips dry with his jacket sleeve.

  “What’s gotten into me?” she asked flirtatiously. “You’re right. Screw the hotel bar. Let’s go back to our room. I have a surprise for you.”

  “A surprise for me? It’s not my birthday.”

  “Well, tonight it’s going to be both our birthdays.” Miriam rubbed her hand across the front of his pants, just in case he’d missed her meaning.

  They waited patiently for the front-desk clerk to give them the rundown on breakfast and checkout and spa bookings. It felt like an eternity until a bellboy escorted them from the stylish lobby into a too-tight elevator and up to their room on the fourth floor, where they’d been upgraded to a suite with a small but separate living room and a little French balcony with views of the treetops on Seventy-Sixth Street. Someone had dimmed the lights, and low music was playing from the Bose speaker on the nightstand.

  Miriam threw her arms around Paul the moment the bellboy pulled the door closed, but he backed away. “I really need to shower first. I’ve been in meetings all day, on and off the trains and subway. Trust me, you’ll be happy I did.”

  She didn’t particularly care if he was clean or not, but that was okay. It gave her time to get everything set up in the living room. “Promise you won’t come in here until I tell you?”

  “Promise,” Paul said. She heard the shower turn on a moment later.

  Miriam closed the French doors that separated the bedroom and bathroom from the living area and went to work rearranging the furniture to create an empty space in the middle of the floor. It wasn’t quite big enough, but it would have to do. She pulled open the Art Is Love kit she’d purchased for the cost of a round-trip plane ticket to Europe and removed: a massive rolled-up canvas tied with twine; two glass bottles of electric blue paint; a trio of paintbrushes in different sizes and thicknesses; and a coupon to include when it was time to send the canvas in for framing. On the instruction sheet, the only words were these: Who are we to tell you how to make love? Apply paint to yourself and your lover, and then forget all about it. Lie down on the canvas and do your thing. And enjoy!

  “Well, okay, then,” Miriam murmured as she neatly lined up the paintbrushes and glass bottles on the coffee table. She turned on the TV and found a good music channel and then dimmed the lights. She wished she’d remembered to bring a couple of candles, but seriously, she was coiffed and ready, enough was enough.

  The shower turned off.

  Should she open the gift bottle of champagne the hotel had left chilling on ice or save it for later? Later. A couple glasses of cold bubbly while she and Paul wore their fluffy hotel robes and basked in postcoital bliss would be perfect. She laid out the robes on the couch, surveyed her setup, and stripped down to her lacy black thong.

  She opened the French doors quietly, prepared to do a seductive dance for Paul before showing him the kit. He was on the bed. His robe was open and his snores were deep and even. All the lights were on.

  “Paul? Honey?”

  Who could fall asleep this quickly? It was nine-thirty, for God’s sake.


  “Paul?” She climbed on the bed, straddled him, and dangled her breasts in his face.

  He woke and smiled. “Why, hello there,” he said, laughing. He twisted out from under her and rolled to his side of the bed.

  “I’m ready for you. In the other room.”

  “Miriam, I’m not even sure I can pull it together right here. I’m so exhausted.”

  “Did you really just say that?” Miriam tried to keep her voice light, but his words stung.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Paul, it’s been months. Months. Do you realize that?”

  He sat up. “Of course. I think about it all the time.”

  “And what do you think about it, exactly?”

  “I think that although I may not like it, this is what life looks like with three young children and a lot of upheaval. It’s normal.”

  “I don’t want this to be our normal,” Miriam said.

  Paul wrapped her in his arms and spooned her from behind. “I promise I’ll make up for it in the morning,” he whispered.

  She lay there for a minute, long enough for his breathing to even out, before she made a choice. She wasn’t going to wonder for the rest of the night what had gone wrong, or regret her birthday night in a gorgeous hotel suite. When she climbed on top of him, he murmured something about being asleep, but Miriam was persistent. She kissed his lips and his neck and pushed against him, and even though it felt like Paul was responding in spite of himself, he responded. The sex was quick, familiar, and functional, and afterward, when he rolled over and immediately fell asleep, she didn’t wake him.

  15

  Exactly Like Rehab, Only Different

  Karolina

  “Oh. My. God. I can’t walk. I’m crippled. Permanently maimed. Who the hell does this for fun?” Emily asked, collapsing onto a wooden bench in the Pilates studio’s lobby as the other women streamed past them.

  Karolina smiled. “I do it in Bethesda all the time.” She paused. “Did it all the time. The megaformer of death.”

  “I mean, you look phenomenal, don’t get me wrong, but is it worth it? I’d so much rather just starve than have to put myself through that five days a week.”

  “I starve too,” Karolina said with a smile. “Come on, let’s go get a coffee or something. If we stay here, people might talk to us.”

  Emily jumped with the energy of a child. “That’s really all you had to say. Walk. I’m right behind you.”

  Karolina clicked open her SUV. “Where to?”

  “Take me anywhere we can have a private conversation and decent coffee. We have a game plan to discuss.”

  “I don’t know this town much better than you do, but when I want to hide somewhere, I go to the library.”

  “The library?”

  “The only people I ever see there in the middle of the day are retirees and nannies who take babies to story hour. But that’s upstairs, so you don’t really see them either. And there’s a café with espresso.”

  “Sold! This thing you call a library sounds perfect.”

  Once there, they each ordered a large coffee and a KIND bar, which Emily noticed Karolina only nibbled before pushing away.

  “You’re thinking about today’s Star headline, aren’t you?” Emily asked.

  Karolina sighed. “I know it’s trash, but it bothers me when they say I have an eating disorder. I don’t. I’m just careful.”

  “I know, but I’ll say it again: the truth is irrelevant. Step one of our plan is to tweak your appearance. You’ve gotten too thin—even for me. I think you should gain some weight,” Emily said. “Nothing crazy, just a few pounds. Make you look slightly less heroin-chic. Just so you’ll be, you know—more relatable.”

  “That’s your brilliant plan to reinvent me, save my reputation from ruin, and get my son back? I should fatten up?”

  Emily rolled her eyes. “You’re not listening. I’m not suggesting you morph into some heifer, just that you put on a few pounds to look a little more . . . maternal.”

  “Maternal?”

  “Look, I recognize that Greenwich, Connecticut, is hardly the home of maternal-looking women. But still—even here you look like an alien with those gazelle-like legs and crazy perky tits and sexy, wavy hair down to your ass. And if the Greenwich moms are threatened by you—and trust me, they are—imagine how you’re playing in Topeka. I’ve never been to Nebraska, but I’ve heard that the Walmarts there look like carnival freak shows.”

  “Isn’t Topeka in Kansas?”

  Emily exhaled a loud, annoyed sigh.

  “Sorry. So you were saying. Weight gain. Anything else?”

  “A haircut.”

  “Stop it!”

  “I’m serious, Karolina. It doesn’t have to be all-out butch, but shorter and less sexy is mandatory. And I know you don’t want to hear it, but we need to talk rehab.”

  Karolina started to protest, but Emily cut her off. “I know, I know, you don’t have a drinking problem. You’re practically a nun. I did look and could not find a single piece of dirt on you regarding drinking or drugs before this particular . . . incident. You’re, like, the only clean supermodel in history. Not even diet pills! As a nod to your impeccable record, I think a week will be sufficient.”

  “I am not going to rehab!” Three nannies with three toddlers at the next table turned to look at her.

  “Keep it down, Amy Winehouse.”

  “Emily.” Karolina knew she sounded exasperated. “How will I ever get custody of Harry if I admit I have a problem? I’m innocent, and I will not admit to something I haven’t done!”

  “It’s simple, Karolina. We need to turn public opinion in your favor. Only once you’re redeemed in the public eye can we go to court for custody, and from a much better position. As it is—as Trip told you—you’ve got nothing. Zero. So rather than be the quiet, good wife uncomplaining about this baseless witch hunt, let’s be proactive. Think of Harry.”

  Karolina peered at Emily, who she knew was right. “How would your fake rehab work?”

  “We put out an announcement. You’re going ‘out west’ to ‘contemplate your actions.’ If we’re coy, everyone will assume rehab. You’re not actually confirming or denying, so they’ll be certain that’s where you’re headed.”

  “And where will I be going?”

  Emily took a sip of her coffee and frowned. “You’ll hide out for a week at Amangiri. I know the GM, and he will guarantee you complete privacy.”

  “Where?”

  “Are you serious? You haven’t been to Amangiri?”

  “I told you, Emily. I don’t drink. How am I supposed to know about rehabs?”

  Emily held up a hand. “Oh my God. Okay. It’s a super-luxurious hotel in the middle of fucking nowhere. Like, private-plane nowhere or drive-five-hours-from-the-nearest-city nowhere. In the canyons of Utah. There are maybe twenty rooms built into the side of a mountain with private pools and fireplaces. Spa is insane. Food is ridiculous. There are all sorts of outdoorsy things you can do if you’re into that, which of course I’m not. But trust me: you want to go.”

  Karolina sipped her coffee and considered. Already she felt like she’d been banished to a foreign land without friends or family nearby. For the first time since before she’d married Graham, she felt like she was floating. Rootless. As though no one in the whole world cared where she was or how she was doing—except Miriam and possibly Emily. Aside from her mother dying, Karolina couldn’t think of a single time in her life when she’d felt more helpless or alone. And while some celebrity retreat in the middle of the desert in Utah wouldn’t be her first choice, it wouldn’t be her last one either. No paparazzi. No Bethesda-people run-ins. No tabloid mudslinging. No supervised visits with Elaine. Hopefully no Internet, so she wouldn’t be able to keep hitting “refresh” on Google News to see if any new pictures of Graham and Regan together popped up. All of that and it would count as a step toward repairing her reputation?

  “Okay,” she said slowly,
nodding. “I’m in.”

  “Excellent!” Emily said, slapping the table, which rattled enough to spill Karolina’s coffee. “Sorry, but I knew you were smart enough to listen to me. We leave Friday.”

  Karolina’s head snapped up. “We?”

  Emily smiled. “Oh, yeah. We need to move on this. We leave from JFK at nine, nonstop to Vegas. Then there’s some hideously long drive through the desert. I could be convinced to book a car and driver, so just say the word. There are charter and private-plane options, but I have to say, I’m not feeling those lately. Too risky from a leak perspective. So we’ll drive. Or we’ll make Miriam drive. Look at some Mormons. Listen to some bad music. And then we’ll arrive in heaven.”

  “Miriam?” Karolina asked. She had so many questions. “Mormons?”

  “It’s Utah!” Emily cackled. “You watched Big Love, right? Oh, and yes, Miriam’s coming too, I already asked her. She was predictably irritating about arranging babysitters, but even she couldn’t turn down an all-expenses-paid trip to Amangiri.”

  Karolina swallowed. Why was this sounding way more like a girls’ spa trip than a necessary step toward putting her life back together? “How much is this costing me?”

  Emily outright guffawed. “Trust me, you do not want to know. It’s obscene, like, even in my world. But look on the bright side: it’s cheaper than thirty days inpatient somewhere! And the linens will be soooooo much nicer.”

  “Fine. If it’s not rehab, I’m in. I’ll think of Harry.”

  “Between now and then, we need to work on a few things. Most important, I’ll work up some language and email it to a few key people. Implying rehab but not saying it. Then we’ll need to practice your nondenial denial. I’ll lead you through every step.” She paused. “And then we will get busy legally. Miriam told me she’s reviewing your divorce papers?”

  “Yes.”

  “She says the prenup is pretty clear-cut?”

  “Yes.”

  “We could fight it.”

  Karolina shook her head. “I don’t want his trust fund from Daddy.”

  “We’ll find a way to remind the public about that,” Emily said. “Next we’ve got to get you more active on social media. It’s time to get your social accounts back up and running. But we need to lose the throwback modeling photos. And no more of you dressed like a senator’s wife. We’re going for accessible, warm, engaging.”