“You’ve already said that. You can’t go kill Graham. That’s bad optics. The new Quinnipiac poll has your popularity above Bella Hadid’s! Remember—feelings over facts! People care how you make them feel. Killing Graham is not a feel-good ending to this story, at least not to the general public.”
Karolina’s laugh sounded borderline maniacal. “I’m not going to kill him. I just need to . . . talk to him.”
“Uh-huh. Talk. I’m sure. And have you thought about how Harry is going to react when you break into their house in the middle of the night and go ballistic on his father?”
Karolina stopped. She hadn’t considered Harry. Emily led her by the arm to the kitchen table and poured her a glass of cold white wine.
“Shouldn’t you be making me chamomile tea or something?”
“Oh, yes. Tea really helps everything.” Emily sat next to her with her own glass of wine. “The only reason I’m not giving you vodka right now is because I saw you munching Xanax like gumballs a couple hours ago. And I don’t need your overdose any more than I need Graham’s murder.”
Karolina somehow managed to laugh. Emily could make anyone laugh.
Emily said, taking a slug of wine, “You were fully going to get in your car and drive to Bethesda and show up in your old house like a total stalker and what? Shoot him? Cut his throat?”
Karolina sighed. “I hope you know me well enough to realize that if I were going to murder Graham, I’d at least hire someone.”
“Well, that’s a relief.” Emily smiled.
They each took another sip. Karolina could feel her pulse slow.
“It’s time to tell me that dirt you weren’t willing to divulge before,” Emily said.
“It’s too awful to be delicious. It’s really, really sad.”
“Noted. Now tell me anyway. I can work with awful.”
“You have to swear not to—”
“Stop it!” Emily said. “Next time you have one single impulse to protect him, I’d like you to remember in vivid detail shooting yourself full of hormones and going under general anesthesia to harvest your eggs so they could be fertilized with sugar water.”
Karolina dug her nails into her palms.
“Exactly,” Emily said. “Now dish.”
“Graham was involved in a fatal car crash in high school,” she said quietly. “I only know what he told me, since there’s nothing written about it anywhere, but he was seventeen and had just gotten his license. He was driving home from football practice and a four-year-old girl bolted from behind a bush. He didn’t even have time to step on the brake. It was instantaneous.”
“No!”
“The parents were family friends and they were all out on the Hartwells’ porch having cocktails when the little girl ran in front of the car.”
“Oh my God.”
Karolina nodded. “All I know is the girl’s parents decided not to press charges. The whole thing was a terrible accident.”
“They didn’t press charges? In the death of their daughter? I’m no lawyer, but I don’t think that’s even their choice. Shadesville. This reeks. There was definitely a deal cut.”
Karolina took a sip of water. “I really don’t know. He didn’t give me a lot of detail. Apparently his parents pulled a classic stiff-upper-lip WASP move and told him to buck up and move on. That he was innocent. That it was a tragedy but it wasn’t his fault.”
“That’ll fuck you up,” Emily murmured.
Karolina nodded. “He needed counseling. And what did he get? A ride to football practice the next day and a lecture from his father on ‘staying focused.’ ”
“They sound like lovely people,” Emily said. “Now I’m certain they paid hush money.”
“Graham did say his mother visits the little girl’s grave on the anniversary of the accident every year. Has never missed one. A few times she’s run into the girl’s mother there, and they don’t really talk, they just cry together. It’s so, so awful.”
Emily was silent, but Karolina could see exactly what she was thinking. “You’re not using this in your takedown plan,” Karolina said. “It’s nothing more than a terrible tragedy.”
“The Hartwell family—American royalty, if we ever had it—are likely complicit in a cover-up of epic proportions. Who was bribed? What were the circumstances of the accident? Why on earth has nothing ever been reported about the accident? You think the public wouldn’t be interested?” Emily took another sip of wine, appeared to consider something, and then drained her glass. “What’s our goal, Karolina? It’s Harry. It’s custody. To clear your name. But we won’t get there without leverage. Graham and his people are too connected. And . . . there’s something else I have to tell you.”
“Oh God. What now?”
Emily refilled both their glasses. “You said Graham refuses to work out at the Senate gym, right?”
Karolina squinted. She hadn’t remembered mentioning that. “Yes. He said it’s too cliquey. Everyone talks shop. It’s not relaxing.”
“So instead he goes to the Equinox near Dupont, yes?”
Karolina nodded.
“I’m happy to report that Graham has made a new friend at his gym.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning Graham has recently become enraptured with a very pretty, very fit brunette named Ana. Last week he began coordinating his gym visits around hers. Yesterday he asked if she wanted to get a juice together when they’d finished their workouts.”
“How do you know all this?” Karolina asked.
“Because Ana works for me.”
Karolina’s eyes widened. “She works for you how?”
“I hired her to seduce your husband.”
Karolina’s laugh sounded more like a bark. “I hope you didn’t pay her too much, because that’s just about the easiest job in the world.”
“You’re paying her, actually, and she does charge quite a bit. But it’s fair, I think, considering she’s going to get pictures, sexts, whatever it takes.”
“You hired a prostitute to seduce Graham?”
Emily appeared horrified. “First of all, I didn’t hire anyone. You did. But I didn’t hire a prostitute. She’s a former police officer who now does private work. Lots of corporate things and political stuff. And she’s got an excellent reputation.”
Karolina rested her head in both hands. “This isn’t happening. This is like a bad episode of Housewives.”
“They’re all bad. But I disagree—this is brilliant! You of all people know Graham can’t keep it in his pants, not even for a president’s daughter and his ticket to the Democratic nomination. He’s going to self-sabotage one way or another—we’re merely helping it along.”
“Is this even legal?”
“Karolina, get a grip! He certainly has the free will not to try to have sex with her. But what do you think are the chances he’s not going to try?”
“Zero.” Karolina sighed. How had they gotten to this point? It was gross on so many levels, but a small part of her was relieved that he would get what he deserved. A sex scandal à la Anthony Weiner. Public humiliation. Exposure for what he truly was. But what about Harry?
“They’re going on their juice date today. I give it a week. The only questions are when and where.”
“They’ll go to her place,” Karolina said. She sounded tired. “He’s not a total idiot.”
“I agree,” Emily said. “Which is why a friend of mine has already been there and set up more spy cams than first-time parents have focused on the baby nurse. How do you think Jude Law got taken down? Or Ben Affleck? Do you really think those so-called nannies were civilians? Hell, no. They had backers like us.”
Suddenly, it felt every minute of three a.m.
Karolina reached over to take Emily’s glass and put it in the sink, but Emily snatched it back and finished the bottle.
“Try to sleep,” Emily said. “The wine, the Xanax, the plan. You should be good for at least a few hours.”
Kar
olina watched Emily take another long slug. During all the time they’d spent together, Emily had never opened up about herself. Her business was clearly flagging. Her husband was in Hong Kong. She seemed worn out and maybe depressed.
Karolina was about to ask her but thought better of it.
“What were you going to say?” Emily asked.
“It was nothing.”
“Please, don’t hold back.”
“No, it’s not like that. It’s just . . . Are you happy?”
“What, you don’t think I’m enjoying drinking refrigerated white wine at three in the morning in Greenwich, Connecticut? Olivia Belle is taking over my industry, and I’m not even making friends in the suburbs.” Emily glanced at Karolina. “No offense.”
“Listen, Emily. I remember you from the Runway days. You were amazing. A bitch on wheels.”
Emily’s face softened. Karolina saw the curl of a smile.
“You kept everyone in line. The models would talk about you, you know. You scared us.”
“I did,” Emily agreed. “And I ran that woman’s life. New York, Paris, Milan. We were everywhere.”
“Well, nothing’s changed! You’re still that same person. Still every bit as bitchy, unstoppable, and intimidating as the senior assistant I remember from Runway.”
A look crossed Emily’s face. “Miranda even wants to hire me back.”
“For real?” Karolina asked. “What would you do?”
“Head up special events. Which basically means run the Met Ball.”
Karolina whistled and suppressed a memory of her first Met Ball with Graham. She’d worn Versace. He’d looked so handsome in Tom Ford. The night had been magical, hadn’t it? Or were all her good memories now suspect? “Wow.”
“Yeah. If she’d offered this five years ago, I would’ve jumped. Now I can’t really imagine it. The hours. The twenty-four/seven drama that is Runway. Yes, it would mean New York, but maybe L.A. has made me soft. I’m not sure moving back is worth it if it means working there again.”
Karolina went to the cabinet and pulled out a packet of chamomile tea. “Have you thought about the fact that maybe it’s just called growing up? Priorities changing? Which is actually a good thing.” She filled the mug with boiling water from the instant hot and placed it in front of Emily.
“You sound creepily positive,” Emily said, “for a person on the brink of homicide.”
Karolina laughed. “I should start a new feel-good Instagram page. Post things like ‘Choose happiness’ and ‘Be the reason someone smiles today.’ Hashtag ‘blessed.’ Hashtag ‘humbled.’ I could be the next Glennon Doyle Melton. A woman of the people! Everyone will love me again. How’s that for a master plan?”
Emily was nodding. “I like it. I do. I’ll get right on it first thing in the morning.”
“Before or after you touch base with the professional you hired to entrap my husband?”
“After. Plus, you hired her, not me. And stop calling him your husband!”
Karolina laughed, and it felt like something released inside her. “I’m really going back to bed now.”
“And I’m really going to dump this tea you so kindly made for me in favor of a Valium. But thank you for the thought.”
Back in her bedroom, Karolina climbed into bed. The sheets were cool and soft on her skin. She opened her Kindle and read a few pages before she felt her eyelids get heavy. Just as she was drifting off to sleep, a thought came so suddenly that she gasped. What she’d missed in all the drama of the previous day was that there wasn’t a damn thing wrong with her body. Maybe, just maybe, she could have a baby after all.
22
Not the Only One Who Can Google
Emily
The instructor in front of her was gorgeous: ripped, with longish hair he kept brushing off his square-shaped jaw, a sheen of sweat covering every inch of exposed skin. Every thirty seconds or so he would lift his head and look directly at Emily and give her that smile, the one that confirmed she was the only one in the room. Which of course she was, because she was riding on Karolina’s Peloton, and the hot instructor was on the screen, and his direct eye contact with Emily was actually shared with 1,294 other home riders. No matter. She could sweat with him and his alt-country playlist all night long. She had no idea what had inspired her to get off her ass in this beautiful, empty house and get on the bike at ten o’clock in the evening, but she was going with it. This beat SoulCycle any day of the week: no people, no socializing, and she could spin in her sports bra and a pair of ripped spandex shorts. Plus, no one would have a word to say about the fact that she planned to enjoy a vodka soda during the cooldown and stretch.
Her phone rang. She wouldn’t have answered it for anyone except the cop, which was who caller ID showed was calling.
“Belinda?” she said, jabbing “speaker” on her phone while simultaneously lowering the volume on the bike’s screen. “What’s up? Do you have an update for me?”
“Ah, Emily Charlton. The one and only. I’m delighted you picked up.” The voice that came through the line was male. Older and refined. Supremely confident.
“Who’s this?” Emily asked, trying to hide her surprise. Her legs began to slow.
“I’m surprised you don’t know. Perhaps you should check one of your Dropcams.”
“Drop—” Emily nearly dropped the phone. She stopped pedaling and unclipped from the bike.
“I’ll save you the suspense, since I’m sure you’re wondering. Your friend Belinda, if that’s really her name, has nothing to offer you.”
“Is this Graham Hartwell?”
“Senator Hartwell. Show some respect.”
His voice was so authoritative, Emily actually almost apologized. Then she remembered whom she was talking to and she laughed. “Whatever, Graham. I’ll show some respect when you do something to earn it.”
There was a beat before he said, “I don’t know who you think you are with this little plot of yours, but it took all of three seconds to figure out. Next time you want to send a former New York City police officer after me, I will press charges. Do we understand each other?”
The line disconnected. Emily was grateful no one was there to see how badly her hands were shaking.
Dammit. That did not go well. And if Emily were being honest, she should have predicted that very outcome. Graham was no teenaged-starlet idiot. She’d vastly underestimated him.
She walked to the kitchen and helped herself to a can of cherry-flavored seltzer she found in Karolina’s fridge. After a few sips, she poured it into a glass, tossed in some ice cubes, and added enough vodka to fill it to the top. Difficult times called for extreme measures. She took a long, deep sip and, realizing it tasted like cough medicine, poured the rest in the sink. The clock on the microwave read 10:28. Where could she get a decent drink at this hour in this damn town? Were there even any actual bars? She texted Karolina, who was in Bethesda for the night visiting Harry, and the answer came back immediately:
No clue. Why? I have enough booze in that house to intoxicate a football team.
Emily wrote back: Please never put that in writing again.
Sorry, forgot I’m supposed to be a recovering alcoholic . . . !!!!
Emily texted Miriam next. Her reply was also instantaneous: I can’t meet you at eleven on a Tuesday night for a drink. Who do you think I am?
Not inviting you per se—just asking where I can go.
Ah, thanks. In that case, try the Italian place by the train station. Haven’t ever been later than dinner but I’ve heard they stay open until midnight.
Thnx. LMK if you change ur mind.
Nope.
Decades of habit forced Emily into the shower and a decent pair of jeans with a cute silk T-shirt, an open cardigan, and a swipe of lip gloss. Her only concession was her hair: if she sprayed it with enough dry shampoo to degrease an ocean oil slick and wrapped it on top of her head, hopefully no one would notice how badly it needed a wash. She waited outside for her
Uber driver, a much too chatty older woman whom Emily had to ask to stop talking, and within fifteen minutes she was contentedly settled on a high stool with an admittedly excellent dirty martini in hand.
“Can I get you anything else?” the bartender asked. He was in his thirties and cute enough. “Maybe an appetizer before the kitchen closes?”
Emily offered him a real smile. “Thanks, I’m good with this. I’ll be asking you for another soon.”
“I look forward to it,” he said and walked to the other end to help another customer. Was he flirting with her? Was she even still flirt-worthy? Alistair had seemed to think so, but then he’d dropped off the face of the earth. Don’t think about it! she willed herself, to little effect. Ugh, she cringed just thinking about the Photoshopped boob pic, texted to him right after her own husband hadn’t even bothered reacting to it. And nothing. Nothing! It was mortifying. She’d checked a hundred times to make sure she’d sent it to the right person, but their text history didn’t lie. And if that weren’t enough, he had his freaking read receipts turned on. It hadn’t vanished into the ether; it had gone exactly where it was intended and been opened and evaluated and then . . . nothing. Not so much as a fucking thumbs-up emoji.
“I’ll be right back,” Emily told the bartender with a wink, placing a napkin over her martini, although there was barely a sip left. She was heading toward the back of the restaurant, looking for the ladies’ room, when she noticed a couple tucked into a booth with high wooden walls. In front of each of them was a plate of heavenly-looking pasta and a bowl-size glass of red wine. There was a personal lamp mounted on the wall right above the table, and the glow lit up the man’s face at the exact same second that he glanced up and looked directly at Emily. It was Alistair. Jesus Christ. What were the freaking chances?
“Emily,” he murmured with a smile that she couldn’t quite read. “What a surprise seeing you here.”
“I could say the same,” she said, sneaking a peek at the woman he was with. Brunette and attractive. She was dressed in a nicely tailored suit, probably Theory, and her hair was in need of a highlights refresh, but her skin was perfection. Why did she look familiar?
When Life Gives You Lululemons Page 22
